


Looking Glass

by Kyonomiko



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Portraits, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-09-19 21:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 99,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyonomiko/pseuds/Kyonomiko
Summary: No one knows what happened to Draco Malfoy in the final battle, but, when his portrait shows up at Harry Potter's house, it's readily assumed he didn't make it. Hermione's perspective on the wizard starts to change as she learns more about who he really was. The more she knows, the more tragic his apparent demise seems to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete and has been uploaded on FF. However, I know some of you prefer/only read on this site and I am starting to port over here as well. Thank you for giving me a read :)

It’s ill advised, she knows, this thing Hermione has with Cormac McLaggen.  Reckless and short-sighted and utterly against any good advice.

At this exact moment, however, with his lips skimming down her neck and his body, warm and solid, pressed against her, she is not really of a mind to care.

It’s a warm and clear night in early June, and this is the third time she’s allowed herself to be lured back by this wizard who had once pursued her as a teenager.  Now a young woman, the of the war behind her, Hermione is settled into a rather successful life, if she does say so herself.

Out of Hogwarts, she was pursued immediately by the Ministry and very nearly accepted a position in Creature Rights.  The Auror Department also sought her out, using Harry to try to woo her over. Unfortunately, that was also Ron’s dream; to join his best friend and keep saving the world together.  On the other side of a failed romantic relationship with the youngest Weasley, Hermione didn’t think their strained friendship could stand that much close proximity.

She hadn’t been quite sure what to do with herself, actually.  After nearly a decade of being told how brilliant she is, how clever and intelligent, Hermione found herself tested when it came to the realities of a career.  She would have to start at the bottom if she chose the Ministry. In the somewhat archaic wizarding world, it is twice as hard for a witch to rise in position. Coupled with the swarm of Hogwarts students who were poised for positions as well, Hermione had known she would land a job easily enough, but might end up stifled and fetching coffee for a very long time.

Wizarding society’s ‘private sector’ had been equally challenging.  St Mungo’s required a great deal more training and much less prestige than practitioners of muggle medicine.  The shops in Diagon are mostly family owned and therefore flush with potential employees from within their own circles.  Gringotts, the hardest ‘no’, wouldn’t even give her an interview. She had huffed and ranted about that for a few days, but, if she’s honest, she could kind of see their point.  It would have been difficult to employ someone who had literally robbed you previously. But, come on, it was one little cup.

Well, and one dragon, but really that was just animal cruelty on their part.

In the end, Hermione was shocked to find an opportunity by Severus Snape.  After he spent a few weeks being mostly dead after the battle, Hermione found him one rainy Saturday at a book shop near George Weasley’s store.  

“Professor?”

He had looked down at her in that sneering, belittling way he had, but suddenly, knowing everything about his motives, he hadn’t seemed at all intimidating:  just a sad wizard with high emotional walls. She wouldn’t dare tell him that, of course. Let the man keep his front and his mask. After all he had sacrificed, allowing him the luxury of believing he could still command fear is the least she could do.  “It’s actually quite nice to see you out and about, Sir,” she had said, deferentially.

His eyebrow had cocked and he had given her a smarmy, “indeed,” for her trouble, before brushing past her.  She’d followed him and waited while he made his purchases, standing just behind him and near the door.

He had twirled to leave, cape billowing, and stopped short when he ended up toe to toe with his former student.  “Is there a reason you’re standing quite inconveniently in the middle of the doorway?”

“I wanted to see if you’d like to grab some tea,” she had replied.  

“Why, Miss Granger, would you imagine I might be interested in that?”

Shrugging, she had answered honestly, “I don’t know for certain.  Then again, it occurs to me I never really have known what you might be interested in. For eight years or more, I doubt anyone has.  Maybe it’s time someone asked you.”

He had eyed her for quite a long time.  Pinned as she had been, an insect under his gaze, it had seemed to surprise them both when he had drawled out, “Very well.”  He had quickly added, “But not that insipid tea house with the doilies and finger sandwiches.”

She’d smiled and agreed.  “Your choice, Professor.”

“I’ll thank you not to refer to me with that title.  It is neither currently accurate, nor a time of my life I very much want to relive.”

And so, they had walked Diagon, Hermione lamenting the sad state of the Wizarding district.  Many businesses had been ransacked by Death Eaters. Some proprietors had disappeared during the war and either were not able or had chosen not to return.  It seemed that wizarding society in Britain, population nearly decimated and inhabitants still reeling, was in need of quite a lot of restoration.

It didn’t happen at that first meeting, tucked into a booth at The Hopping Pot.  That day was merely a meeting of the minds. Hermione Granger and Severus Snape knowing each other as more than the swotty teacher’s pet versus the taciturn Death Eater.  Snape learned that Hermione was pragmatic, forward thinking, and driven. Hermione, in turn, found that Severus was creative, conversationally engaging, and passionate about his interests.

It wasn’t until their third time having tea that they decided to go into business together.  Their second meeting was as much an accident as the first. They ran into each other, both browsing the same book shop, and thought it obviously kismet, both immediately agreeing to a repeat of tea. The third had been planned.  They met in the same booth, and Snape had wasted no time before offering, “I have a proposition for you, Miss Granger.”

She had been intrigued from the start and, by the time their first cup had gone cold, she readily agreed to his proposal.

It’s been a matter of mere months since that meeting, but Hermione is now the co-proprietor of a booming potions shop, nestled next to a renovated Fortescue’s.   

They had decided early on that neither of them is much suited to working with the public.  One of the many things they have found to have in common is that they do not suffer fools. They had hired Penelope Clearwater.  No slouch at potions, she understands the product enough to offer excellent customer service and also has the sort of personality that lends itself well to social interaction.  Hermione and Severus focus their attentions on brewing and innovation, improving and bottling various potions and elixirs for home or professional use.

Life is turning out not at all as she might have imagined as a wide-eyed eleven year old, holding her wand for the first time, but she can’t complain about the outcome.

The part of her life that is not entirely rosy is her love life.  Dating Ron had been an unmitigated disaster. He had been jealous, inconsiderate, possessive, and lazy.  Sweet, of course. Devoted… but ultimately just not compatible, and they had ended things before it could be too messy.  Their cohabitated flat had stayed with Ron, and Hermione had moved in with Harry at Grimmauld Place. Recently calling it quits with Ginny Weasley, they partnered up as the ‘Weasley rejects’ they were and enjoyed a delightful friendship full of late night muggle films and gossip.  Who knew her best male friend would make such an excellent girlfriend? He chuckled when she told him that and didn’t argue the point.

After Ron was her first mistake with Cormac.  Little more than a one-night stand, he had found her tipsy in a new pub, Harry having just been called away on Auror business and leaving her alone to close their tab.  Cormac had been flirty and obvious, chatting her up with ridiculous pick-up lines and blatant sexually-charged flattery. Hermione had responded by throwing caution to the wind and embracing the fact that she was single, mature, and quite interested in getting laid.  

Her Walk of Shame the next morning was less pleasant.  Harry had raised an eyebrow at her disheveled appearance, and when he had asked, bemused, where she’d been, she had huffed and mumbled something about not ‘being his business’, and doesn’t he ‘have to go to the office or defeat a Dark Lord or something’?

The second time was after a very poor decision to go on a date with Charlie Weasley (completely not her type, and Ron is still pouting about it), followed by her brief fling with a muggle named Dave. The latter had been very nice and very boring, and it lasted maybe two weeks before she broke it off.  Cormac’s reappearance had been just so comically, cosmically eerie, she hadn’t even questioned how completely stupid it would be to repeat a one-night stand. She never seems to run in to him between their trysts, and it is another month before she sees him again.

This third time, inadvisable and reckless and just really fucking stupid, brings us back to present and Hermione grinding herself shamelessly against the wizard yet again.

“We can’t go back to mine,” he’s saying. “My roommate is entertaining tonight, and he’s such a tosser about it.”

She groans into his neck and says, “I suppose we can go to mine then.  Harry’s room isn’t even on the same floor. Plus, he’s probably out. I think he’s seeing someone, but he hasn’t told me who…”

He doesn’t care.  He doesn’t say it, but she stops talking because they both know it.  This isn’t that sort of relationship. It’s not a relationship at all.  Hermione has been more than clear that she has no real interest in Cormac beyond his cock, and Cormac, for his part, doesn’t seem too bothered to have nothing of Hermione beyond heat and friction in the dead of night.

“Let’s go then,” he mumbles, licking a line from her cleavage to her clavicle, his hands smoothing down her back to settle on her arse.  “Unless you just want it here. I’m not real particular where I get off.”

Hermione is fond of a little dirty talk.  There is a way a man could mumble that he’d take her in an alley that might bring her to her knees, but this isn’t it.  He’s not eloquent enough, his phrases remedial and hardly engaging. It doesn’t have to be poetry, but, Merlin, his word choice is positively primary.

Thinking she needs to find a way to keep his mouth busy before he ruins this for her, Hermione grabs his head and brings his mouth to hers. Immediately his tongue darts out, parting her lips, and she’s reminded there are some things he does rather well.  Wand in hand, Hermione takes charge and spins them in place, only to reappear with a POP in her dim bedroom.  His mouth is still on hers and his hands on her arse.  In a private space and ready to find her release, Hermione drops her wand at her feet and starts to work the buttons on his shirt.  

Cormac’s hands simultaneously release their hold on her bum and work around to her front.  He pulls at the hem of her blouse, untucking it from her skirt and lifting it over her head, still buttoned.  He cups her breasts, encased in satin and lace, and runs his thumbs over the peaks, immediately finding them sensitive and hard. She moans in the relief of it.  

“What the fuck?... McLaggen?  Ugh, I did not need to see this.”

Hermione is not often startled.  She built some pretty solid reflexes during the war and is, generally speaking, a level-headed witch.  However, she finds herself momentarily terrified to hear, from somewhere in the low-light of her room, the voice of a dead man.

Cormac screams a little, further emasculating himself in Hermione’s eyes.  “Sweet Merlin! Who’s that?!”

Covering herself with her arm as best she can, Hermione finds her wand and points it at the sconce just above the door, lighting the room. She finds herself staring over her shoulder at the wide-eyed, mouth-gaped visage of Draco sodding Malfoy.  “Granger?!”

“Hermione!  Hermione, are you alright?”

Harry throws the door open and pulls up short, taking in the sight of Cormac McLaggen plastered against the wall in terror, his best friend half-naked and pointing her wand defensively, and a painted Draco Malfoy staring out at the scene.

“Oh, you found the portrait.”

“I, uh…” Cormac is peeling himself from the wall and shuffling sideways toward the door.  “I think this might be an end to our night. I’ll just… see you ‘round, ‘Mione.”

Harry watches him tear down the corridor before turning his gaze back to Hermione.  “Harry, what the hell?! Why is there a portrait of Draco Malfoy in my room?!”

He points out the door down the hall.  “Why is there a McLaggen in your room?”

Hermione is not amused and simply growls a very intimidating, “Harry…”

He rubs the back of his neck, hair sticking up everywhere and glasses slightly crooked on his face. “Sorry about that.  It was delivered today and I wasn’t sure where to put it. The first floor is mostly in renovation, and I needed a nice open wall.”

“Why didn’t you put him in your room then?”

His face scrunches, and he looks between her and the image in question.  “I mean… I didn’t really want Malfoy in my bedroom.”

“Well, neither do I!” she screeches back, incredulous.

“Plus, I don’t think he’d really fit.  It’s a giant bloody portrait, you know?  Most of the other rooms up here have windows and built-ins and woodwork… It just fit so nicely there.”  

Harry gestures at the painting, perfectly centered on her, admittedly, huge and open side wall.  It’s then she remembers she’s standing there in her skirt and bra and scrambles to throw a shirt back on to cover herself.

“Pity,” she hears and looks up to find Malfoy smirking at her and giving her body a rather obvious once over.

“Oh, hell no,” she grumbles.  “I’m not sleeping here with him staring at me.”

Harry has the audacity to roll his eyes at her. “It’s not really him, you know.  It’s just a dumb painting.”

“Hey!  I am not any such thing!”

Ignoring the interjection by said painting, Harry continues.  “I’m sure once they’re done downstairs, we can find a place for it in the drawing room or the parlour.  It shouldn’t be too long.”

Hermione contemplates, feeling her ire cool.  It is just a portrait and, she would do well to remember, this is Harry’s house, not hers.  He has been a generous and indulgent host. She keeps odd hours, tending potions at the shop, then returning unabashedly in the wee hours many nights.  Not to mention, raised by two professionals who employed housekeeping services and dined most nights either in restaurants or on take away, Hermione has never been terribly domestic and tends not to keep house very well.

Harry refuses rent money, tidies up after her on frequent occasion, tolerates her disturbance as she comes and goes in the night, and makes little judgement on her poor relationship choices.  This is, literally, the only thing he has asked of her in the months she has lived her.

Sighing, Hermione throws up her hands and agrees, “Fine.  It can stay here.”

“’Hey’, I say, again!… I am not an ‘it’!”

“But as soon as the drawing room is done, it goes.”  She gives the painting a once over and shivers. Portraits have always struck her as being singularly creepy. This one, the image of a dead school mate, lost to unknown circumstances during the final battle and painted to virtually life size, is the most unsettling she’s ever seen.  “Where did this even come from?”

“Apparently with the Malfoy family gone, I’m the closest thing to a relation they found for the Black part of the inheritance.  The Malfoy fortune, as I understand it, went to the Nott estate.”

She chuckles a little, smirking.  “As if Theodore needed more money.”

Harry grins but agrees. “Lucky sod.  Seems their families were close, socially and on their family trees.”

There is a pause in which no one, including the blond in the painting, says anything.  Finally, Hermione notes, “Well, I guess my night turned out differently then I’d planned.”

Harry and Draco both snort at that, exchanging a glance that seems to find some common ground.  On this one thing, they seem to agree: Hermione has questionable taste in wizards.

“Right, well, good night then.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Harry.”

He lets himself out and closes the door behind him.  The quiet of the room is a buzz, loud in her ears. Hermione is dreading having to turn around and face her dead rival.  With a deep, cleansing breath, she spins slowly to find his grey eyes studying her.

“Well, if you’re going to be staying here, I suppose we might need some ground rules.”

Draco rolls his eyes.  “Figures. I mean, it’s not as if I can do much damage, apparently. What am I going to do?  Eat your take away? Borrow your clothes without asking? Speaking of which,” he seems to light up suddenly, “very fetching underclothes you have there, Granger.  I quite like the lace… Chantilly? Or Guipure?” He wriggles his brows at her in suggestion.

“That right there. Rule number one:  No sexual innuendos. Especially,” she amends with a furrow of her brow, “strangely innocent ones where you know more about lace than I do.”

“I can do less innocent,” he offers, leering even more.  “Would you prefer I comment on the surprising size of your -“

“Stop! No… less-than-innocent sexual comments, either.  It’s bloody awkward.” She shivers on purpose for effect.

“Why?  I’ve been lead to believe I’m quite appealing.  And you certainly don’t seem to be the prude everyone thought back in school.”

“Because you’re dead, Malfoy.  Mysteriously, and, if I’m honest, somewhat tragically, dead.”

That seems to peak his interest.  “Tragically? Pining for me are you?  I never knew you cared,” he says with boyish sarcasm.

“I don’t,” she says, but then explains, “I mean, I do. Not about you, in particular, but it’s terribly tragic how many young people were lost.  I find it deeply sad that you died so young.”

“That’s oddly touching, Granger, but you needn’t worry your bushy head about it.  I’m not dead, obviously.”

She gives him a pitying look.  “Malfoy, you’re dead. Your parents fell to rogue Death Eaters as they tried to escape.  Your whole family is gone, I’m afraid.”

He looks away and inhales sharply, seeming to steel himself, his voice softer than before.  “I heard that… about my mother. They knew she lied for Potter, apparently. I heard some wizards talking where I was being stored.”  There is a vulnerability in his tone and in the set of his shoulders, but it is gone in a blink. He shakes his head then and levels her with a look. “But I am not dead, Granger.  I think I’d know if I were merely a portrait.”

She cocks her head and raises her brow, asking of him with a little condescension, “Oh, would you?  You know this because you had so much experience being a portrait before you died that you know exactly what it feels like?”

Draco’s eyes narrow at her.  “Don’t be obtuse. You’ve talked to portraits. They never argued about what they were.  They seemed to know, and I’m telling you, I’m not that.”

Exhausted and not in the mood to argue, she shuts him down with obligatory agreement. “Well, I suppose you’d know better than me.  Look, Malfoy, it’s two in the morning. I’m going to get some sleep.”

“That’s what Potter and I were trying to do when you so rudely popped in with your boy toy wrapped around your tits.”

“Charming.”  Hermione slips into the large closet on the south side of her room and changes into a long gown for sleeping.  She is typically inclined to sleep in a simple cotton shirt, or occasionally only her knickers, but believes she will be more comfortable in somewhat demure attire.  Even if he is just a portrait, it still feels a little intrusive to have Draco’s image in her room.

She emerges to his stare and slides into bed.  A wand flick and the room returns to the state of near dark it was in when she arrived.  Hermione settles down, pulling the covers up over her body and letting out a sigh of relaxation.  Sleep is close, and she is starting to drift when his voice breaks the silence of the room.

“I thought, if anyone, maybe you might be able to help me.”

His tone, soft though it is, rouses her immediately.  “Help you?”

“Figure out how to get out of this painting.  Find out how I ended up stuck like this.”

It’s terribly tragic, and Hermione’s heart hurts for Draco just a little.  She’s never known a portrait to be in denial, and that just seems like the most depressing things she’s ever heard.

She is a sucker for underdogs and lost causes, after all.  Ron, the underdog. House elves, the lost cause. Amongst others.

Draco Malfoy:  self-aware dead portrait.  She can’t change the reality of his situation, but she supposes it wouldn’t kill her to be kind.

“I’ll see what I can find out about what happened to you, Malfoy.  See if I can find you some answers.” Maybe if she can uncover the circumstances of his death, he can accept his new lot in existence.

He doesn’t answer for a long time, when finally she hears a very sincere, “Thanks, Granger.”

“You’re welcome.  Good night, Malfoy.”

If he returns the well-wish, she is asleep before he does.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day finds Hermione waking to a lazy Sunday morning, far earlier than is probably wise considering her late night.

She cracks her eyes open in the glow of early-morning sun. Her room faces the south, so she is spared the worst of the intrusive rays. Waking slowly, she contemplates her day and realizes she has very little that needs accomplished. There are no potions currently brewing that require her specifically, Harry will be at the Burrow playing Quidditch with a selection of various Weasleys, Ginny amongst them, and that, sadly, pretty much covers her obligations and activities.

Hermione has always been a somewhat solitary creature. She is social to certain degrees and highly values her family and friends, but most of her interests do not require additional company. Potion brewing, reading… these are not team sports.

Fully awakened and stretching out her back, her gaze falls across the room at the portrait of Malfoy, now easier to study in the morning light. She takes in the entirety of the image and finds it very interesting.

Most portraits she has had the opportunity to know, are, in the most readily accepted traditional sense of the word, only a depiction of the face and shoulders of the subject. This Draco is shown fully, his entire body in frame. Even more curious is the large amount of background the artist has included. The image is sleeping, conveniently allowing her to study his surroundings without the benefit of his snarky commentary.

The room that houses him is a lush and luxurious design. Details such as intricate moldings and trims highlight the deep cranberry coloured walls and rich wood floor. The walls are further decorated with paintings in garish gold frames.

Draco himself is lying on his side, facing the back of a plush sofa. It appears to be a white linen with carved wooden legs and decorative buttons puckering the back. He is covered partially with a plush throw of white and navy. His platinum hair is disheveled, an odd thing for Hermione to see. Even last night, he had looked incredibly put together. He is relaxed and comfortable, one knee bent and pressed against the sofa, the other stretched out with his foot hanging off the side. Next to the sofa is a small table holding a carafe, twin crystal glasses, and a bowl of fruits. A bookshelf sits along the back, left wall and seems to be packed with various tomes. Upon closer inspection, they look to be a combination of potion and spell texts, wizarding fiction, and incredibly odd, a copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin. Strange enough to find muggle fiction in a pureblood portrait, but even more so mid-century erotica.

All in all, it looks like it a room that would fit into Malfoy Manor, having the same level of décor and opulence. Likely, Lucius and Narcissa had it commissioned just before the final battle and Draco's subsequent death.

Stealthily leaving the room, Hermione makes her way to the first floor of the old house. As she expected, the Black family home is quiet. Harry has likely made his way to the Burrow and is gearing up for Quidditch. Ron will be there, of course. Ginny rarely misses as well. The other spots on their casual teams are less consistent. George comes occasionally, though he has bouts of melancholy that keep him away. When he does manage it, he usually has his Hogwarts teammate Angelina in tow, creating a solid game of three on three. Charlie visits when he can, and plays if the teams can be even. Percy is the sibling who attends the most outside of the two youngest, but he is about as adept on a broom as Hermione, and so is more often a spectator than anything.

Considering that she has absolutely nothing to keep her away, and Molly has been asking after her, wondering why her nigh-daughter never visits anymore, she decides to make an appearance after all. The awkward atmosphere that was her relationship with Ron after they split has tempered somewhat in the months between then and now. And, she reasons, if Harry can play Quidditch with Ginny after their own failed affair, often even on her team, Hermione can surely manage to watch the game from the ground and muster up a few cheers for her friends.

Tossing the floo powder and shouting her destination, Hermione finds herself in the middle of the chaos that is the Weasley house.

"Oh, Hermione dear, Harry didn't say you were coming!" She is engulfed into the comforting and cushioned embrace of Molly, feeling the motherly warmth radiating from the family matriarch. The woman has bustled over as soon as she heard the floo, various cooking utensils floating obediently behind her.

"I hadn't decided until today. Severus is minding the potions this weekend, and Penelope is watching the shop. I thought maybe I was overdue for a visit. I hope you don't mind I came unannounced-"

She has barely finished the thought when Molly slaps at the air as if to swat away the notion. "Oh, pish, you never need announcing. You are always welcome, day or night."

Hermione smiles and thanks the woman. It's an oft repeated sentiment, and she appreciates the sense of welcome she feels here. She hasn't always had such a strong and open relationship with Molly. The woman is fiercely protective of her family, sometimes to the detriment of relationships outside of her Weasley kin. She also has a judgmental streak as wide as the Sahara. Yet somehow, perhaps the years of war tying the wizarding world tightly together, they had bonded over time, almost even more so after she ended things with Ron. As she recalls, Molly's response to her son was, " _Ronald Weasley, if you don't get your act together, you'll lose every witch you meet before you secure a wife. I_ have  _to love you; I'm your mother, but no woman worth her salt wants to pick up your ruddy socks for the rest of her life!"_

"The children are already in the back. Here, take this." Molly thrusts a pastry at Hermione, not bothering to ask if she's already had breakfast. This ritual has been going on long enough now, she knows full well that Hermione skips breakfast in favor of either sleep or starting her day early.

Hermione, for her part, knows better than to argue. With a quick show of gratitude, she tears a bite off with her teeth and mumbles, "delicious" around the flaky treat. She waves then, and makes her way out the kitchen door and into the lush green garden beyond.

Not manicured or particularly kept, the beauty of the Weasley homestead is in the wild and untamed expanse of nature. Lush green blades bend to the whimsy of a summer breeze, wild flowers dotting the view and adding vibrant color amongst the grass.

"Oi, 'Mione! I didn't know you were coming!" Ron is shouting down at her, hovering twenty feet up in front of a tree with magically bent upper branches that acts as the goal.

She shrugs and hollers back, "It was a sort of impromptu decision."

She settles down in the grass, a silent cushioning charm making for a more comfortable seat, and scans the skies. Harry and Ginny seem to be faced off, likely both acting as chasers. There is no Seeking with these casual games, the team sizes being too small.

George seems to have made it today, though he does not have Angelina with him, and Charlie has made an appearance as well. Somehow they seem to have convinced Percy to join, who is hovering in front of the other goal/tree. To say he looks bored would be a gross understatement. He seems to be studying the grain of his broom handle quite intently. How they imagine he will be an effective Keeper is beyond her. Still, it's nice to see him included considering the rough nature of his family relationship during the war.

"Hey, Granger! Grab a broom, will you?! You can help Percy Keep. I hardly think he counts as a whole player." George is grinning at her.

Calm as anything, Percy removes his glasses and rubs them against his perfectly fitted and buttoned shirt. "Better yet, she can take my place if my efforts do not meet your standards."

Hermione jumps in quickly, before they drive Percy away. "I'm sure you're doing an excellent job. I think I'm just fine here on the ground, thank you."

George shrugs and the game starts again. She gleans over the course of the next few minutes that Ron, Ginny, and Charlie are beating George, Harry, and Percy. After that, her attention wanders, absentmindedly following the action without really focusing.

This would have been a simple life, she knows. There is a warring sense of relief and regret in her heart whenever she is in the presence of this family. No part of her wanted to be a Molly Weasley sort of mother. Hermione has ambitions and is truly grateful for her intellect and career. Yet, she sometimes misses the sense of belonging she had as a partner to Ron. She is still welcome, but there was an immediate shift in the place she occupies. A hole exists for Ron's future lover, and it will never be her place again. Sometimes she thinks the last few weeks of the relationship, she was really just holding on to the  _idea_  of being with him, of being a Weasley, more than wanting the wizard himself.

When Molly calls them inside, somehow Harry's team has bounced back and taken the win. Ginny is the most put-out by the whole thing and sulks a little during lunch.

"How are the renovations coming along, Harry?" Arthur is spooning a bit of pudding onto his plate and, the meal finished, some of the family is starting to excuse themselves to enjoy tea in the family room.

"Slowly," Harry replies. "But they did manage to unstick Walburga's portrait finally."

"Speaking of portrait," Hermione interjects, "when will they finish the parlour so we can move Malfoy?"

"What do you mean, Malfoy?" Food was a good distraction for Ron up until now, but the mention of his most hated rival seems to draw him in.

Harry glares at Hermione, likely not having wanted to deal with Ron regarding this particular piece of art. "Nothing. It's just we have a portrait of Malfoy that came over with the Black estate items."

Ron scrunches up his nose in distaste. "And you didn't burn it immediately?"

"I know he was a git, but that's highly disrespectful."

Arthur jumps to Harry's defense. "Terribly. You never destroy a portrait."

"Still, he was an arse."

"Language, Ronald." Molly is bustling back in to the room with an empty tea tray in hand, having just delivered drinks to the rest of the family in the other room.

"Sorry." There is a beat and then Ron asks, "So what are you going to do with it?"

"I'm thinking it might fit on the north wall in the parlour, once the built-ins are removed."

"In the meantime," Hermione offers, knowing the question is coming, "it's hanging in my room."

"In your bedroom?! Like… watching you sleep.  _Eww_ , 'Mione."

She rolls her eyes at her former lover. "First off, he was sleeping all night at the same time I was, not watching me, and second, it's not  _really_  Malfoy you know. That's like saying a teapot is watching you."

"If a teapot sneered at me and called me a mudblood, I still wouldn't want it around."

"Ronald!" There is a collective gasp around the table, his mother being the first to chastise.

"Sorry," he says again.

Hermione waves it away and tells him that it's fine. She knows he doesn't mean anything by the word, but still, using it in polite company is ill advised and thoughtless. Just one of the many reasons why they didn't work as a pair. Raised by two professionals with a love of culture and intelligence, Hermione has been trained since she could speak to do so with purpose. 'Thoughtless' is a word that literally makes no sense to the witch. How can one presume to speak and not consider the words?

The remainder of the afternoon is pleasant enough, but Hermione is more than ready to make her excuses by half three. Small doses is the key to her continued relationship with a rather overwhelming family. As an only child, she has always found the dynamic in this house to be exhausting. Being half filled with ex-boyfriends has not made it easier.

She decides to swing by the shop on her way home and check in on Penelope. It's not like she has anything else to do today. It will likely be evening before she makes it back. She thinks she should have told Harry she'd be late for dinner, but he's a very understanding roommate by and large. No, she really has no obligations, so she is off to Diagon with a spring in her proverbial Apparating step.

* * *

 

"Where the  _fuck_  have you been?!"

Draco is staring at her, fists clenched as his side, as Hermione cautiously continues into the room and closes the door behind her. "I went to the Burrow for a bit, then I stopped by my shop to see if Penelope needed anything -wait. That is absolutely  _none_ of your business, what I do." She stomps one foot for emphasis, annoyance rolling like a wave over her instinct to apologize when confronted.

"You said you'd help me," he says, glaring. "You think I'm just here having a picnic, Granger? I've been trapped here for months, and I thought, after I asked politely and you agreed to help, that you might actually prioritize getting me out of this fucking purgatory."

She blinks, shocked. In the early hours of morning, the taste of Cormac on her tongue, Hermione will admit that agreeing to help him had been mostly perfunctory, and she had quickly forgotten it come morning. He's so visibly angry, but, more than that, he looks haunted now in the afternoon light. There is an exhaustion on his face and shadows beneath his eyes. Regardless of who he was in life or even the fact that he's not really Draco, it's a little heartbreaking to see the stress and fear so clearly. Suddenly a fissure of guilt travels her spine, and Hermione gives him a sincere apology.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy. I was busy today but I promise, tomorrow I'll head to the Ministry and see what I can find."

She searches his eyes and watches the intensity soften and he takes a breath. "Thanks, Granger. Sorry… I'm just really fucking sick of being stuck alone in here."

She hadn't even thought of that. Can portraits be lonely? Even the collection at Hogwarts has each other for company, not to mention students to chat with. She makes a mental note that perhaps engaging him in conversation would be a kindness she can afford. Prick that he always was, not even Malfoy deserves eternal silence.

Plus, he sort of weakly apologized for his outburst. That's definitely an improvement on the old Draco. What would it hurt to do a little research on his behalf? It's not as if she doesn't genuinely enjoy research.

Hermione excuses herself to find Harry, and they enjoy a late dinner together before retiring to their rooms. Draco has dozed off in his frame by the time she returns, so she tip toes to bed and snuggles under the covers, contemplating her new, very odd, flatmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! I really appreciate the kudos and reviews so far


	3. Chapter 3

It's guilt, honestly, that drives Hermione to the Ministry archives early on a Monday morning. That blasted portrait made her feel like a monster for not fulfilling her promise to research the death of his likeness.  _How inanimate is inanimate_? She's started pondering. How sure is she that the portraits, enhanced with magic too ancient to understand, can't possibly feel fear or sadness?

It's intriguing to her, actually, this particular bit of magic. Intriguing and a little horrific. She was always fascinated with the portraits of Hogwarts. They had seemed so self-aware, it was almost impossible for her to believe they were little more than brushstrokes on canvas, imbued with a bit of charm magic. And what if witches and wizards are wrong? What if this God-like creation of faux life is more detrimental than they know? What if the portraits truly are  _aware_? What happens when they are destroyed?...

It had kept her awake at night more than a few times, curious and imaginative twelve year old that she was. The years passed, however, and she grew to accept their state as nothing but what everyone else believed: they are no more real than a muggle photograph.

Now, with this version of Draco Malfoy, begging her for help, all those ancient concerns are starting to revisit her at night. What if he truly believes he is real? Could it simply be a botched spell? It makes her shiver, a psychological chill right down to her bones.

Even if it's  _not_  actually Draco Malfoy in her room at night, he's the image of a young man that has shown himself, in brief glimpses, to be frightened and desperate. With a heavy sigh that morning, she had pulled herself from her comfortable bed and dressed for the day at an early hour. Emerging dressed and ready from her en suite, she'd been greeted by the image of Draco sitting on his sofa, arms crossed petulantly.

"It's about time, Granger."  _Ah, so his usual attitude is back._

"You know, you might not want to be rude. I could just change my mind."

"You wouldn't," he'd sneered back. "You promised. Gryffindors are predictably honorable that way."

He'd been right of course, and Hermione had rolled her eyes before grabbing a jacket and heading to the floo.

Now, it's nearly eleven in the morning, and she's found very little on the Malfoys' last heir. He has been listed as deceased, of course. That much she anticipated. It is a matter of public record that the Malfoy family was declared dead after the final battle. No physical body had been found for Draco nor his father, though evidence of physical struggle and curse marks on the earth were discovered surrounding the body of Narcissa Malfoy. She had bled heavily, her body a virtual husk left frail and sheet-white on the ground.

It is odd, Hermione will admit, that his body is unaccounted for. Almost enough to make her wonder about the portrait.

Hermione breaks for lunch and returns to the stacks, chasing a new investigatory path and expanding her search into more than just Draco Malfoy, but the casualties at large. It is slow going at first, but the deeper she digs, the more instances she discovers of bodies that were, at least initially, listed as unrecovered. At least twenty-six Death Eaters had vanished during the battle: A staggering number on the surface.

However, over the course of the past year, seventeen of those mysteries have been solved. The body of Amycus Carrow, or what was left of it, was discovered in the magically dissected bodies of at least four Acromantulas that had feasted on his flesh. As the Forbidden Forest was cleaned up and searched for, first survivors, then remains, they found Augustus Rookwood, Vincent Crabbe's father, and Thorfinn Rowle had suffered the same fate.

The emaciated body of Jugson was discovered deep in the woods, the remnants of a festering leg wand probably what ultimately did him in. Rosier and Goyle Senior had been killed by Centaurs as they tried to escape the battle, their bodies left as a warning to those that would intrude on the Centaurs' lands.

The list was extensive and gruesome. After an entire afternoon of research, Hermione starts to think that maybe it's best for Draco's likeness if he not find out exactly what happened. The choices of fates are colorfully varied, each more vivid than the last.

She finally lands on the only witness document that mentions the Malfoy men. Theodore Nott's father had noticed the Malfoys slinking away from the battle. A blood-thirsty Fenrir Greyback, not far behind, sniffing after the cowards like a lion on a wounded gazelle (his words, verbatim). Nott had further theorized the three met their end at the hands of the werewolf, who was likewise later killed by Aurors a week after the battle.

She closes the last tome with finality, having reached a veritable dead end. Most anyone who would have known the Malfoys is either dead or has already been questioned. To say the family was unpopular at the end would be a vast understatement. Somewhere in the midst of the battle, word had circulated that Narcissa was a traitor to the cause. Death Eaters who were interviewed on their way to Azkaban had no love lost for the three purebloods and seemed to think they had met a deserved end.

Similarly, the Order and other fighters for the Light had little sympathy. Accounts from those on Hermione's side of the battle lines included phrases like "predisposed to Dark Arts" and "cowardly lot of evil tossers". No one mourned them in their passing. Not the Dark. Not the Light.

It's the most tragic thing from the war she's come across in some time.

But what the hell does she say to Draco? He loved his mother; that much was obvious in the one moment he mentioned her. To know that the entirety of the wizarding world brushed aside her loss, not to mention his own death, is something no one, not even an inanimate object, should have to shoulder.

Hermione returns to Harry's new ancestral home that evening, feeling grim and uncertain. She finds her friend in the parlour, looking over the work that has been done during the day.

"Looks nice," she says as she enters, eyeing the crown molding that has been refinished and painted a crisp white.

"I thought so," he nods, eyeing it, and then turns to her. "You look exhausted."

Offering a wry smile, she flops onto the sofa by the fire and responds, "Thanks. You're looking particularly not as fresh and handsome as usual, yourself."

He chuckles and takes a seat at the other end. "Sorry," he offers the perfunctory response. "You just look a little worn down, is all."

"I am," she admits. "I spent the day at the Ministry archives."

Harry furrows his brows and turns to face her more fully, offering his obvious attention. "Are you looking for something?"

Hermione sighs and settles in. "You'll think I'm a complete loon. It's Draco. Malfoy… He… It's crazy, Harry, but he doesn't think he's a portrait. I've never seen anything like it."

Her friend nods. "He mentioned something like that to me when they were hanging him. Says he must be cursed or something. Tried to convince me to call in favors with the Unspeakables if I could. As if I have any say with that bunch of lunatics," he finishes with a mutter.

"Right. So, he asked me… and I can't believe I agreed… he asked me to research for him. Find out what happened to him after the battle. Harry, I can't find anything concrete, but the accounts of other missing Death Eaters…" She shakes off the haunted feeling and finishes with a succinct, "I don't think he needs to know what likely happened to him or his mother."

"What will you tell him?"

She shakes her head, a little unsure, but answers, "I'll tell him I will look more. That I didn't find much. Which, in regards to him in particular, is true."

Harry frowns and reaches over to squeeze her hand. "I'm sorry I put you in this position. If I'd known he wouldn't behave like a normal portrait-"

She waves that thought away and interrupts, "It's fine. Really, Harry, it's your house. He's not even that bad so far. Mostly polite…ish. I just feel a bit guilty. You know me, always the one with the answers."

They fall into a comfortable silence, contemplating how true that statement is.

Finally, Hermione rises to her feet and says she is going to retire. Though she'd not appreciated the comment on her appearance, she truly is exhausted. She is not, however, looking forward to speaking with Malfoy's image.

She stops in the kitchen on the way to make a cup of tea and steels herself for the conversation to come.

Opening the door slowly, she peers in and steps across the threshold. Malfoy's image stands immediately, looking at her with anticipation.

"Well? Did you find anything?"

Hermione tries for a polite and placating grin. "Not much yet, I'm afraid. You're presumed dead officially, which you knew. Your assets have mostly been seized and distributed, including the manor and your Black inheritance, though one Malfoy vault is still locked down. The goblins refuse to release it to the ministry for another year without a… a body." She pauses, realizing how clinical she sounds. Clinical and cold. Clearing her throat, she starts again with a touch more sympathy in her voice. "I, um… I'll try again, though. I mean, I only went to the Ministry. I'll see what I can find from other sources. The Quibbler even. Luna is an odd one, but she's eerily knowledgeable sometimes."

She makes a mental note to ask Luna about portrait curses while she's at it.

Draco takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "Thanks, Granger. I'd hoped… but I know it was your first try. I just want to say thank you for helping me. You don't have to and… I appreciate it."

Hermione isn't quite sure what to do with this contrite and humble Malfoy. She softens a little and shakes her head, denying his gratitude and feeling rather undeserving of it. "You don't have to thank me. If there's anything I can do, I will." And she finds that she means it. If he has been cursed in some way to a restless eternity, she will do what she can to bring him the usual peace she has seen in enchanted paintings.

Stepping all the way into the room, she sets her teacup and saucer on the nightstand and grabs a nightdress, still tending toward slightly more conservative bedtime attire. She told Ron it was like being watched by a teapot, but that's not entirely true. He might not be a real person, but it's a reasonable enough facsimile for her to respond to his attention as if he's real.

She returns in her black gown that covers as well as a sundress and a bathrobe hanging off her shoulders. Steadfastly not looking at her unconventional guest, she crawls into bed and picks up the book beside her.

He allows her to read in silence for a while, her tea emptying slowly and simultaneously growing cold. She had just cast a warming charm on the remaining portion when he clears his throat.

"What are you reading?"

She hesitates and does that asinine thing where she actually looks down at it to check. As if she's already forgotten what it was. "Just a muggle fiction book. Nothing that would interest you, I'm sure."

"I would hazard you have no idea what might interest me."

She looks up to find him staring intently. Where she expected to find a sneer, she finds a strange sincerity. She supposes it's a valid point as well. What would she imagine Draco Malfoy read for pleasure? 'How to Kill a Headmaster in Ten Days'? 'Vanishing Cabinets, Murder, and You'?

Marking the book with a bit of scratch parchment she tore out of the Prophet, she sets the book on her lap and explains with a bit more detail, "It's called 'Blu's Hanging'. It's a story of a family in a rather impoverished muggle community and the struggles they face with finances, racism, and their own dynamics. The main character is the daughter, and it's her coming of age story in the face of those challenges."

"Sounds depressing."

She's shocked to see what almost looks like a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, and so she snarks back playfully, "I told you it wouldn't interest you."

"I've reason enough to be depressed, thanks ever so."

The banter stops abruptly before it even had a chance to start. There is silence after that until, sometime later, Hermione looks up to find Draco asleep on his little sofa, his back toward the room.

Turning down the light by her bedside, Hermione slips under her sheets, trying very hard not to think about what it would be like to live in a state of denial and depression, eternity looming overhead.

She doesn't have the answers, but it's starting to eat at her conscious, this path of mildly ignoring his plight.


	4. Chapter 4

You know," he starts without preamble as she enters the room, "I'm not sure with what you've been messing about all day, but you could at least keep me company until you find a way to get me out, Granger."

Ah, so he's in one of those moods today.

Hermione has had a relatively long day at the shop, and she wants nothing more than to fall in to bed and read until she passes out, sleeping until dawn. What she doesn't want, is to cater to the whims of a blond git who isn't even really a person. Not to mention, it is making her increasingly uncomfortable to pretend she has any belief in his ability to resurrect. He's  _dead_. He's a portrait. Paint and magic and a very gaudy gold frame.

Draco Malfoy is nothing but a memory by all accounts. She just can't bring herself to tell him. After a few days of research and a conversation with the only agent in the Department of Mysteries who would give her the time of day, she has no reason to believe anything else.

He has also been absolutely bi-polar all week. Some days, he is every bit of the complete prick he has always been to Hermione and anyone she cares about.

But other days, when he is contrite and humble and sad and sweet… whenever he looks at her expectantly, asking what she's found, there is this fragile hope that softens his countenance. The portrait, the memory of the man, allows himself to be much more vulnerable with her than she would have thought possible. Perhaps the portrait wasn't painted correctly? Maybe that should be her next line of research: Portraits gone awry and curses that last as eternally as canvas.

This mood, however, this entitled and snappy Draco, feels very familiar. "I was working, Malfoy. I know it's not a concept you understand, but I'm quite proud of my career choice."

He scoffs and starts to say something when she throws in a very petty name-drop, "And Severus needed my help on a project so it simply couldn't be helped."

"Snape? You're working for my godfather?"

"With would be the operative word, not for. Severus and I are partners. We opened an apothecary next to the old Fortescue's."

"Well, wonders never cease," he says with a bit of sarcasm though not much heat. Then he waves it all away and returns to his original point. "Regardless, it wouldn't kill you to talk to me a little. I only have so many books in here, and I've read them all."

Hermione looks up from where she was carefully running a brush through her hair. "The books function? They open and you can read them?" She's never heard of anything of the sort. But then again, she's never seen a portrait with quite so much background.

Draco shrugs and, using the book in his lap as reference, flips through a few pages and faces them out for her to see. "Of course. Completely functional. But... and I know this might surprise you... books are a poor substitute for a social life. They might keep you company, but I'd like a little more stimulation than that."

She snorts, recognizing a wide opening for a double entendre but doesn't follow it. She's not sure she's ready to tip that scales into depravity as to sexually banter with an inanimate object. "You don't actually know me all that well, Malfoy. I'm quite social. Selectively so, but I don't just have my head buried in books at all hours."

He rolls his eyes and leans back on his little sofa. "Yes... right: McLaggen. How can I forget? Hope I didn't scare him off. Wedding bells in your future, Granger?"

Having finished her grooming, she lays the brush on her vanity and responds, "Oh, Merlin, no. He was just a one off. Well... maybe a two off. Three... Whatever," she rushes forward to find the point of her denial. "There will be no wedding bells with him or anyone else. Not now, anyway. I'm far too engaged at the shop."

There is a slow grin stretching his face, his perfect teeth gleaming out at her. He's so lifelike it's eerie. "So you were just using him for sex? My, my, aren't you just full of surprises, little lion."

"Not using. Just… it's just sex, Malfoy. There doesn't have to be a winner and a loser. We both got to have sex. End of."

His grin is firmly in place, and he gives her a rather obvious once over. "Who'd've thought?"

"Not you, obviously," she banters back, a little ashamed to admit she is enjoying his delight. He was very handsome and quite popular within his social circles. What girl wouldn't preen a little under his assessment? "McLaggen, however, had a vague idea from sixth year."

"All that protesting you did, and you let him have his grubby way with you? You little tart." The way he says it sounds like praise, and she simply smirks in reply.

He can believe whatever he wants. Truthfully, Cormac only scored some kissing and a little handsy exploration back at Hogwarts. No reason for Draco's portrait to get more detail than that. Not to mention, it always feels more alluring to not quite know everything.

Ok so maybe she is depraved enough to sexually banter with an object.

"So, did you have a chance at any research today?"

She looks back at him from where she is slipping off her shoes and feels that familiar guilt flood over her previous enjoyment. He asked the question casually, like it was of little consequence, but she knows that's just a façade. She can nearly taste the stress he's trying to hide. "No… I'm sorry, I was at the shop with Severus all day."

He looks brokenly disappointed for just a moment but quickly schools it and shrugs. "I know you can't spend every waking moment looking in to it. Maybe tomorrow then?"

"Yes," she placates quickly. "Maybe tomorrow after I finish up the potions I started tonight."

He nods, and she suddenly wants to be out of the room. Vaguely aware he started this conversation asking to be entertained, she's afraid she just can't look him in the eye right now, guilt eating away at her. "I'm just going to see if Harry needs help with dinner or anything. I'll come back after I eat. Maybe we can… talk? Or something."

If he realizes this is merely an excuse, he doesn't comment and merely bids her a good evening until she returns. She slips out of the room and releases a sigh of relief before trudging down the townhouse's many steps and finding Harry chopping carrots for a salad.

"Something smells delightful," she says, and she means it. Harry has turned out to be a strangely adept cook. Considering his mediocre potion skills (yes, mediocre, Slughorn. Fuck off.) he has proven to have a natural knack for the more artistic process of food preparation.

"Thanks. It's just some chicken baking and a little vegetable hash. Hungry?"

"Starved," she says with a grin and sits at the table to watch him cook. Having very little culinary talent of her own, she has always enjoyed being a spectator to his process.

"So how's Malfoy?"

Hermione gives a quick roll of her eyes and says, "A prat, predictably. Still assuming I can rescue him. Harry, how do I tell him all signs point to dead?" Her sarcastic tone in the beginning gives away to her more sincere emotion underneath. She likes to pretend it doesn't affect her, but truthfully she feels bad for the image of the man. She hates it when he seems truly bothered by his situation. Which, unfortunately, is almost all the time.

Her friend just shrugs. "Probably should be upfront about it… or, I don't know, just don't and wait for him to move to the parlour."

Ah, Harry. A bastion of well-thought-out advice.

"I might do a little more research, I suppose… if I can find the time. I mean, I think I've explored most of the information available about the Malfoys, but I would like to look into portrait lore and see if there might be a reason he's so dissatisfied. A curse perhaps."

"Whatever you think you're up for, 'Mione. Just don't wear yourself out over it." Harry is spooning hash onto matching plates with pieces of baked chicken and then carries them over.

"Wine?" She asks.

Agreeing, Harry suggests, "A white. Something buttery." Hermione thinks it's adorable when he uses terminology he learned from cooking programs on the telly.

She selects a Chardonnay from their small wine rack and opens it cleanly with a flick of her wand. You never have to worry about corking a bottle with magic. It's the little things that make life so grand.

Hermione pours them both a glass and takes her first bite, Harry joining her and tucking in to his own plate. It's not long before curiosity seems to get the better of him.

"So, what do you think happened to him? Malfoy. What exactly did your research turn up so far?"

She shrugs, taking a dainty bite of chicken. Excellent fucking chicken, she would like to note.

"I can't find an account of how he died, exactly. Just that he was running away from the battle with his parents. His mother's body was found, and she had dramatically bled out. Nearly bled dry."

At his curious look, she clarifies, "Sorry. That was a bit dramatic. Not a vampire bite, the Aurors checked, just really deep mortal wounds. Lucius was separated from the two, I know that. Thorfinn Rowle's account places him alone in the Forbidden Forest after Riddle fell. There is no information on Draco specifically, but he's amongst a list of two dozen former Death Eaters that vanished that day. Since the initial count, investigations in the area have unearthed the remains of over two thirds of them. Logic follows that he met a similar end. Eaten by Acromantula, murdered by Centaurs, starved to death while in hiding, succumbing to wounds after the fact… it's a grim picture."

Harry grimaces, looking down at his plate like he's lost his appetite. "I can see why you're not in a hurry to tell him your theories."

Hermione laughs a little at his discomfort, partially to mask her own, and takes another bite of the remaining hash on her plate. "Well, they are just theories, so I don't feel obligated to share them just yet. I'd rather have something concrete to tell him. I think if I report back what I found so far, he will just insist it proves he's alive. Quite sad, really. He's in such deep-seated denial."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about this. I'd not realized having him on your wall would be such a bother."

She shrugs, unsure what to say. It is a bother, but, as she had considered before, it's not like Harry asks for anything. She's sitting here eating this beautiful meal he made for her without even a conversation beforehand asking if she would like him to. It's the least she can do.

"It's not really too terrible. I just feel a bit guilty when he asks. I mean, I know the real Draco is gone, but I don't like that disappointed look on his face all the time."

"Strange, isn't? Malfoy being gone. Don't you wonder what did happen to him?"

She shifts in her seat. "I prefer not to think on it, honestly. You know, after the Manor…" She doesn't need to specify what she means by that, both immediately thinking of the night it almost ended for the Golden Trio and, subsequently, Draco's white lie that might have saved them all. "…I guess, after that, I thought maybe he would be the redemption story, right? That, after the war, maybe he could start again."

"I would have spoken for him," Harry admits thoughtfully. "If he'd survived and they had put him on trial… I would have spoken on his behalf. I saw him at the top of the Astronomy tower. He wasn't going to kill him, Hermione. I didn't really think so then, but I'm sure now, looking back. If Bellatrix hadn't arrived just then… I think things would have been very different. Maybe he would have even been standing on our side."

Hermione nods, and they sit silently for a moment, sipping wine and lost in their own individual reverie of what might have been.

"You know, he hasn't called me a Mudblood or anything since he arrived."

Her friend snorts. "Of course not. He's asking for your help."

"Alright," she concedes, "fair point. But even still, he's actually been oddly polite. Petulant, at times. Entitled… but also almost nice, more often than not. If portraits have the mental likeness of the time they were painted, his must have been right before the final battle, right? I mean, he looks basically the same. So, maybe, right before the end, he didn't hate us as much as he let on?"

Rising to his feet and picking up both of their empty plates, Harry hums a noncommittal reply and carries the dishes to the sink. "He was still a complete tosser who broke my nose," he eventually comments, and they both laugh, the heavy atmosphere broken.

"Maybe… I might be able to find out more details on his case. I know you went to the Unspeakables, but I could ask Kingsley…"

Hermione understands this is a generous offer from her friend. Harry Potter does not like to throw his proverbial weight around for personal gain. She's grateful and quite touched.

"Thanks, Harry… I would appreciate that."

"Anything you need, Hermione. You know that." He holds her gaze and Hermione nods at him, knowing he means every word.

"Would you like to watch something? I don't know if I want to face him yet."

Harry agrees and they settle in to the sofa together, a blanket shared over their laps. Hermione finds her attention wavering and her thoughts returning to the blond man upstairs, bored and alone and waiting for her return. When the credits role, she bids Harry good night and makes her way back to her room, an apology on her lips.

He's not asleep when she enters, as she had hoped might be the case. Draco is back to reading one of the books from his small shelf, a historical account of Wizarding politics if the title is of any indication.

"How is it?" she asks and, when he looks up, indicates with a nod to the book.

"Dry. I don't doubt the accuracy, though. The author has exactly no flair."

She snickers. "So, not written by Lockhart, then?"

Draco quirks an eyebrow in turn. "Oh, now you're on the same page as the rest of us? I seem to recall you batting your little doe eyes at him in Defense."

Hermione can't help the blush at being caught, but then promptly returns her temperature to normal when she realizes what he's just admitted. "You noticed me that closely? Why, Draco, I'm quite flattered."

She expects him to sputter and deny, but instead he just grins and shrugs his shoulders in seeming acceptance of her assessment. Huh.

"So, have you read it before?"

"Twice. This time, I'm playing a game. Every time the author uses the phrase 'as is Wizarding tradition' I do a round of sit-ups. I should be pretty fit by now. He's quite fond of repeating himself."

She just barely stops her tongue from waggling, "You're pretty fit already." Instead, she nods in understanding and grabs her nightdress before heading into her en suite. "I'll be right back," she tells him, and he waves her away.

Inside, she studies herself in the mirror, thinking of the past and how she has always seen herself and how people see her in turn. She admits that her confidence has increased tenfold since the war. Though, when she looks back at her formative years, she assumes she was still just an ugly duckling back then. Maybe someone saw something in her before she even realized? Hermione grins before schooling the expression and heading back into her room.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," she offers, as she slips in to bed.

His reply is quiet, but she hears him return the sentiment and then drifts into a contented sleep.

Two days later, Harry makes a very rare visit to the potions shop on an equally rare day that Hermione is the only one tending the store. She grins as he enters and notes the bag of take away in his hand.

"Harry, you are the best person I've ever known."

"You don't know the half of it. Would you like to know what I've done today?" He sets the bag on the counter as Hermione flips over the 'open' sign to 'closed' and locks the door.

"Do tell- Oh my God, you brought hummus. I could kiss you."

"Why does it seem you're the only person in my life that says that." He favors her with that boyish grin of his.

"Because you spend all your time with me and the others never have a chance. Their loss." She flips her curls over her shoulder and smiles at him, not quite sure why he doesn't have a witch on his arm, or at least not one serious enough that he's bring her 'round the house, but believing fully that he will find what he's looking for someday. Not with her of course. He's far too brotherly to her for that. But she loves him without limits in their perfect platonic way.

"So, what did you do today?"

"Oh, right. Well, I went to see Kingsley… for you… and was roped in to watching a presentation on new training exercise safety for the Auror program. It was dreadful, Hermione. The worst three hours of my life."

"Three hours? For a safety presentation? That seems… thorough."

"There were flow charts," he deadpans. "And pie graphs. Oh, and one very detailed list of every single way you can hurt yourself with your wand physically. There were five that involved the nose alone."

Hermione snickers. "I'm so sorry," but it's said through a laugh, so it's not terribly convincing.

"Well, it could be worse. I could be Malfoy. Speaking of-"

"That's a hell of a segue."

Harry shrugs and goes about spreading hummus on a bit of naan. "So I'm not a wordsmith. Sue me. Anyway, I looked into the Malfoy case. What the public records don't mention, because technically he's an open investigation, is that his blood was found near Narcissa's body in the forest. And his wand. They are currently closing the case and ruling him an official casualty of the battle."

She's not surprised to hear that at all, but it's still gruesome and unwelcome news. "I thought as much. I mean, I knew it, but it's hard to accept sometimes. He's just so much like him. And how in Merlin's name do I tell him?"

Harry doesn't seem to have an answer for that, not that she expected one. She wanted answers, and he provided them. How and if she now presents them to her dead flatmate… That's on her.

Outside of the morbid news about Draco, it's been a good day. Hermione is grinning when she walks in to her room that evening, half chuckling under her breath at Harry's parting comment as they separated in the hallway. Her friend had continued to complain through dinner about the training seminar he found himself attending today, griping good-naturedly as they retreated to their separate rooms.

"The things I do for you, Hermione."

"You adore me, obviously. That's why you cook for me. I like to think of it as payment for all those tests and essays I helped you with in school."

He had grinned at her and asked, "How many meals, do you think, is each essay worth?"

"Oh, a dozen at least. I figure I have a good couple of years yet before you kick me out."

He had shaken his head and smiled, answering, "Never."

The smile still bright on her face, she closes the door behind her and comes face to face with her new reality.

Right. Draco.

Her mood still sunny, she favors him with a genuine smile. "Good evening, Malfoy."

One brow raised, he answers in kind, the corner of his lip tugging upward as if he might return her grin. "Granger. You look uncharacteristically not stern and intense today."

She snickers as she slides her feet out of her house slippers, luxuriating in the thick rug she had placed in her bedroom, as opposed to the cold wood floors of the rest of the house. Harry really should consider some warming charms if he's not going to look into carpet.

"Why, thank you. What a nice compliment. You, yourself, are looking much less pointy and ferret-like as well," she snipes back, injecting as much humor as possible.

He lets his grin get away from him, and Hermione notices for the first time the dimple that forms in his cheek when he does. Has she really never seen him smile? Sneer, yes. Smirk, of course. But this broad grin, complete with perfectly straight, white teeth, is as rare as a Phoenix.

"Had a nice day, I take it?"

She hums in reply, trying not to focus too much on how much more handsome he might have been had he smiled more in his short, tragic life. "How was yours," she finally asks, choosing a nightdress from her chest of drawers.

"Oh, you know me. Full schedule, as always. Tea with all of my numerous not-dead friends, pick-up Quidditch in the afternoon. Hardy dinner of fruit and room temperature carafe water. It's a burden, this charmed life."

Everything he says is the most depressing thing in the world, except for the pleasantly, humorously, sarcastic tone that delivers it. Hermione looks up to find him still grinning. Is this what it's like to see Draco in a truly 'good mood'?

"It's a wonder you can find the time," she quips back, smile ever wider. Hermione considers, for a moment, before blurting out what is probably a bad idea. "Would you fancy a game?"

His eyebrow cocks back up. "A game? What did you have in mind?"

Searching her room for answers, she thinks out loud, "Trivia, perhaps? Something knowledge based? Oh! You have Hogwarts: A History in there. You can ask me anything from that and see if I can answer." She walks to the bookshelf beside her bed and skims her fingertips over the tomes before finding what she wants.

Holding up the cover for him to see, she continues, "And I'll ask you questions about Wizarding Historical Society."

"Well," he starts, "I suppose I might have a few minutes to fit you in before my next engagement."

And so, they had played. Quips became relatively civil arguments and fact checking and back to good-natured ribbing until suddenly it was the middle of the night.

Hermione yawns and checks the clock on her nightstand. "Malfoy, it's three in the morning. I think we call it here."

"Tired of losing? I don't blame you, Granger. Really, it's alright."

Hermione personally thinks she's still winning, but there are three answers in contest between them. Rather than argue, she pretends to concede. What does losing to a portrait really matter? "You win, Malfoy. Well played."

He pouts at her. "I like it better when you have a bit of fight in you, little lion. Don't give up so easily."

She hasn't smiled this much in one evening in a very long time. She gently closes the book in her lap and lays it on the nightstand, slipping her legs beneath the bed sheet. "Rematch, then. Another night. If you can fit it in your schedule of course."

He shakes his head, still smiling, and simply tells her, "Good night, Granger."

It truly has been a great night. She will tell him about his apparent demise later. Tomorrow, maybe.

She's asleep before the melancholy can take over.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco's portrait has now been hanging on Hermione's wall for over three weeks. Once she heard from Harry that his demise was all but wrapped up as far as the Ministry was concerned, it became easier to justify thinking of him as just a portrait. Though, the niggling guilt of not telling him as much has remained deep down.

She meant to tell him. She rehearsed various methods and considered the approach. It just… never seemed to come up. For his part, Draco has stopped asking about her research. She assumes in an attempt to be less pushy. Days have passed, and it has become easier to live the status quo.

In that time, she has engaged him, with increasing frequency, in conversation. Their evening of wizarding trivia seems to have been the catalyst for an evolution of their interactions. What started as him asking for help, demanding her attention, and begging to help relieve his boredom, has morphed into playful and suggestive banter, despite her initial attempts to dissuade it. Hermione supposes it would be hard to share a space with the opposite sex without there being some tension in the air. Never mind that he's merely the image of a dead man, he's also incredibly attractive to look at.

Since the faux Draco's very abrupt appearance in the middle of her 'date' with Cormac, Hermione has had no other opportunities for male companionship. Living her formative years in the fear and stress of war, her physical needs had never seemed a huge priority. Afterwards, however, and having a taste of a solid relationship with Ron (that included a large amount of carnal exploration) and the subsequent rebounds once they had broken up, Hermione has found she quite likes sex. Unfortunately, her social life includes an ex-boyfriend at its center, and her business mainly affords her the company of a woman and a man who feels more like a father figure than anything. The most constant source of testosterone in her life is a portrait on her bedroom wall.

She is finding more and more that she thrives on his attentions, a thrill dancing along her spine when he eyes her appreciatively. Consequently, she has added subtle performances into her routine.

The first time had truly been unintentional. It had been just over a week since that first night of trivia, and she had wandered back into her room after a shower wrapped in a fluffy grey towel, hair sticking to her shoulders. He had been awake and gaping at her, eyes wide. For all their banter, the look on his face had told her he is 'all talk'.

"Merlin, Granger, I didn't know we'd moved to such a casual relationship."

She'd looked down at herself and shrugged. The portrait outside the Prefects bath had never seemed too bothered when she would occasionally sneak from the bath to her room after curfew, indulging in a late night soak. But then again, those paintings had never professed to be a real person.

"If it makes you uncomfortable, I could dress in the loo. It just didn't seem to matter either way since you're always asleep in the mornings."

"You've been dressing in here?!" His eyes had gone impossibly wider, and his voice hit a pitch she would never imagine the drawling pureblood could reach.

After that, there has been a bit of theater to the occurrences.

Rather than dressing fully in the en suite, as she had told him she would, she sometimes emerges in the flimsy tops that are then covered by her robes. Sometimes she dashes into the room wrapped in a towel to retrieve something she 'forgot', shooting him a look of put-on embarrassment and apology. It was never in Hermione's nature to play the coquette, but damned if she isn't enjoying the heated looks and sexual quips he bestows upon her, the shock of the first encounter seeming to have abated and his demeanor becoming bolder over time.

Today, however, she actually did forget her knickers in the other room. It's oddly more embarrassing under these circumstances than when she orchestrates the scenarios on purpose. She feels a little foolish as she tip toes into the room, trying not to wake the Draco still snoozing in his frame.

She makes it to her dresser and extracts a pair in basic black. She has more exciting options: Red lace, pink boy-cut, even a couple with a thong back so fine she could nearly floss her teeth with them. Most of those purchases were made with Ron in mind. A few were selected after, in a fit of needing to feel beautiful in the shadow of relationship failure.

The most risqué, the purple thong made of transparent Chantilly lace, was actually picked up on a whim a week ago. She would never admit to thinking of smoldering grey eyes when she made the impromptu purchase.

Grasping the basic black satin, she is almost back to the door when she hears a low, "You're not as sneaky as you'd like to think, Granger."

Hermione squeaks and clutches the towel where it is tucked into itself at her breast. Spinning around, she finds a smirking Draco, obviously quite pleased with himself, lounging on the little sofa. He has one arm draped over the back and one leg crossed over the other at the knee. He looks powerful and confident and, if Hermione were wearing any, she has no doubt her knickers would be quite wet.

"Malfoy," she breathes, startled and taking a deep breath to calm down. The way he is looking at her, however, makes being calm the stuff of fantasy.

"You seem to do that a lot," he notes.

Hermione furrows her brow in question and he clarifies, "Forget your knickers. It seems like you have to come back for those quite often. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were putting on a show."

Well, she has been, but she won't admit that to him. Hermione digs in deep and pulls out sincerity by the bag full. She did forget them, after all.

This time.

With honesty and a little bit of indignation, she denies, "Or, I actually just forgot them. I was hoping to sneak in and out without waking you. Sorry about that, by the way," she adds as an afterthought.

There. She was polite and sincere and apologetic. That should diffuse the situation.

"Oh, there's no need to apologize," he purrs. So much for diffusing anything. His drawl is as sinful as the look he's dragging down her bare legs. "You're more than welcome to prance around as indecently as you would like. It's your room, after all. I'm just a guest." One last drag of his gaze and then, "A very, very lucky guest."

She could chase the promise in his voice. There's no telling where it might lead. Not to sex obviously, at least not of the traditional sort. But she has laid awake more the once the past few weeks imagining his reaction if she were to pull the covers back and reveal herself to him, locking eyes and touching her body for his entertainment. The temptation is palpable for just a moment, all the teasing and pretense building up to an actual conclusion.

Yet, she doesn't. She's struck by the most horribly timed sense of pride and bitterness, and so, instead, she challenges, "Lucky to share a space with a mudblood? I'm sure there are other walls you would have preferred to share."

He frowns, and Hermione lets a little guilt wash over her and then dissolve into their bitter past. The real Draco deserved far more than a few pointed quips for all the torment he bestowed upon her. Then again, this particular Draco has been a very pleasant roommate the past two weeks. She feels that separating the portrait from the memory, the painting from the man, is both difficult and dangerous for her.

His stance changes, demeanor darkening, and she watches him lean forward to study her. "You know, I've been stuck here with you for weeks. I guess it's time we had this out."

She scoffs and turns to leave. "No thanks, Malfoy. I'm really not interested."

"Do not walk away. You don't get to make a nasty remark like that and just walk away."

She doesn't much appreciate that imperious tone of his. One leg already across the threshold, she gives him an evil smile over her shoulder. "Watch me."

He yells her name in agitation after she closes the door and finally just tapers off with a barked, "Fuck!"

It's almost as satisfying as her sexual fantasies. All the years of listening to his prejudiced rhetoric, feeling powerless, she finally has the upper hand. It's not quite as satisfying as it might have been when he was still alive, but it makes her a bit giddy nonetheless.

By the time she's dressed, he's stopped trying to yell at her through the door, and she emerges to find him pouting. His arms are folded over his chest and he is glaring at her. "Are you ready to talk now?" he asks, like she's the one behaving like a child.

Hermione chuckles, her own ire completely evaporated, and waves him on. "Go ahead."

This should be good, she thinks unkindly. Here comes the Malfoy talking points on blood purity. The excuses and pandering because he seems to believe he needs her help. Maybe he has been cursed after all. Maybe this portrait is paying a penance for past behavior. Like a ghost damned to wander until their soul is put to rest.

Seating herself at her vanity as she so often does when they talk, Hermione brushes through her wet curls and watches herself in the mirror, waiting for her would-be roommate to speak.

"Is this why you won't help me?"

The brush stills in her hand and she turns on her seat. His body has slumped forward, his forearms resting on his knees and eyes looking up at her through the fringe of his platinum hair. "What?" She asks, stunned by the soft and shaky tone of his voice.

He takes a breath, deep from his bones, and levels her with a look that is so sincerely broken it makes her reel. Where has the confident, smarmy Slytherin gone?

"I'm not stupid, Granger. You go to your shop, the Weasleys', you spend time with Potter… You're not looking for answers, not researching my situation; Not anymore."

She starts to protest but he stops her, his voice gaining strength and his posture straightening with obvious effort. "I was angry, at first. I had believed surely you would help me, Golden Girl of Gryffindor and all that. You have all those hero-type qualities in spades. I thought you were just being selfish. Insensitive. Now… is this why? Are you punishing me? I'm not even saying I don't deserve it, but… please. I'm so sorry for everything, and…I just…I've been here so long… please, help me."

"Draco…" She doesn't even have a follow up for that. Her mind is racing around the path forward. Does she admit she hasn't been looking? Does she tell him what little she has found simply points to his death? Does she insist he let go of this fantasy?

She considers all of those options, but he looks so despondent it steals her breath. Rising slowly, she approaches the frame of the image. She's never really stepped that close before, finding portraits to be rather off-putting anyway. From this distance, it's eerie how much he looks like the real Draco. It's like she's looking through a window into another room. Another world where a dead man is still alive. A looking glass into Wonderland.

She still hasn't found a response, and Draco has risen from the sofa, approaching her. "I'm sorry, Granger. You have to believe me. I never wanted… I didn't know what to do. I never wanted to kill anyone… hurt anyone. If you help me, I promise I'll show you… I'll do anything you want, make it up to you forever. And before that… before Dumbledore and…" He grasps his wrist with his other hand, presumably where his mark lay hidden beneath his sleeve. "Before I joined them… I'm sorry for the way I treated you."

"Please…" His eyes beg, and he reaches a hand to touch where hers would be. Hermione lifts a palm and lays it against the canvas, letting him mirror the action so their hands appear to be pressed together. "Please, help me. Don't leave me like this, even if I deserve worse."

Reaching her other hand, she traces the line of his face, imagining the warmth his porcelain skin once held. This poor, tragic boy. So young and, while far from innocent, never given a chance for redemption.

"Draco, I'm not… I'd never do that. I'd never condemn you on purpose."

He's searching her eyes as she lets her hand drop back to her side. "I meant what I said. I might have meant it differently when it was just banter, but… I know how lucky I am. I could be shoved in a dusty basement. I could have been tossed on a pyre, ridding the world of the Malfoy legacy of dark magic. I'm fortunate to have been brought here."

Hermione has always had a little difficulty accepting compliments. She does her level best to keep her voice light when she quips, "Even if I'm a know-it-all swot with bushy hair?"

It seems to do the trick, drawing out a slight quirk of his lips. "You know, I always liked your hair, actually."

She raises an eyebrow in response, grin broadening. "Oh?"

"I mean, I couldn't let on, of course. My father would have hexed my eyes for noticing, but I think your hair is fucking glorious."

It's the first time he's complimented her. The first time he commented on something in regards to her appearance beyond vague sexual innuendo that would be equally appropriate to any witch with legs and breasts. This is specific to only Hermione Granger, and, for all of her bold flirting in the past few days, she blushes like a virgin and looks away with a demure bite of her bottom lip.

They are both quiet until finally Hermione says, "You know, I actually don't need to be at the shop until later. Maybe I could swing by the Ministry again today." It's a weak offer on her part, but she can't seem to look him in his beautiful grey eyes and offer nothing. She doesn't believe anything can be done to resurrect the last known Malfoy in Britain, but maybe she can find out why his portrait seems to be cursed. A way to put his soul to rest. It's a line of research she had intended to follow but hadn't made the time.

"I would…" he starts, but his voice cracks on some unnamed emotion, and he starts again, clearing his throat and trying to sound stronger. "I would appreciate that. And I meant it, Granger. If you can get me out, I will owe you. Anything I have to give is yours. Not sure what that would be since it seems Potter probably has most of my money, but I'm sure there would be something of value I can use to repay you."

The mention of her best friend seems to be mired in equal parts humor and bitterness, and Hermione decides not to comment on either. She also finds a revitalized dedication to researching this strange haunted painting. Can a ghost be trapped in an image? Could there be more to this than she thought? Looking at his pained expression, she renews her silent promise to find out.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Hermione sneaks out of Grimmauld Place before Draco or Harry wake and makes her way back to the Ministry. Specifically, she wants to ask Percy Weasley if she can utilize his floo. As the Ministry's official education liaison, he has one of the few offices with a connection to Hogwarts, and he never denies her anything. It seems as though he's always trying to prove himself, like he has to make reparations for his part in the Ministry before the war.

"Hermione. I hadn't expected you."

She approaches with confidence and leans in to kiss his cheek, allowing him to do the same. There is something refreshing about the mannerly and professional way that Percy has about him. Though he was always the black sheep of the Weasleys to most people, he is oddly the one she understands the most. Hermione probably would have considered dating him, had he asked. On the other hand, she has a suspicion she might end up feeling like the lazy, disorganized one in that particular relationship and isn't sure that's a reality she wants to face.

"Percy. I apologize for dropping by unannounced. I'm researching a personal project, and it occurred to me that I might find what I need at our alma mater. Would it be terribly inconvenient to utilize your floo connection?"

"Of course, you're more than welcome. Anything else I can do to assist? Is it for the shop?"

"No, nothing potions related. Just a bit of a curiosity about a portrait."

He nods in understanding and gestures for her to proceed to the side of this office where the floo is installed. "Interesting. I was always a bit intrigued by portrait lore myself."

Hermione looks over at him as he reaches for a container of powder on the corner of a side table. "Have you done any research on the matter?"

Offering the small dish, he shakes his head. "Only in the most fundamental of terms. It was a hobby pursuit that I never afforded much time."

Hermione accepts the powder, taking a small portion in her hand with a perfunctory, "thank you", and tosses it into the flames. "Headmistress McGonagall's office."

The witch in question answers, her brogue warmer than it had been at school. Hermione always found her to be a bit of a "Mary Poppins". Firm, but fair… and much more pleasant to adults than children.

"Miss Granger. What a pleasant surprise. And Mister Weasley," she adds, noticing Percy behind Hermione. "I do hope I do not have trouble with the Ministry today," she says with what is just almost a chuckle. At least, as close to one as Hermione has ever heard from the woman.

"Headmistress, it's lovely to see you. I wondered if it wouldn't be an imposition if I visited Hogwarts for some personal research. I was hoping to access the library and perhaps even have a chat with Professor Flitwick."

"Of course, dear. Pop through, and I will see you settled."

McGonagall steps away from the floo, allowing Hermione entrance to her private office.

"Thank you again, Percy," Hermione says politely. He acknowledges her with a nod and practiced smile just before she slips through.

By the time she has breached the castle she once called home, the Headmistress is seated at her desk, prim and upright as ever. "Shortbread? Can I have the elves bring you tea?"

Hermione accepts a shortbread from a small plate with a gilded rim. "Thank you, Headmistress."

"Minerva will do," she says brusquely. Then again, most things she says sound a bit brusque.

"Minerva," Hermione corrects herself. "Do you know when Professor Flitwick might have a free period?"

Turning to her left, Minerva consults a charmed time table on the wall. The parchment seems to be a map of sorts, but overlapped with schedules and color coded by class. Hermione sees blocks of space she assumes to be classrooms, filled with the names of the faculty and students within. They are each labeled as well. It's very much like the Marauder's Map. Noticing a space labeled "Third Floor Girl's Lavatory" that has the names of both a witch and wizard inside, Hermione feels suddenly uncomfortable by how intrusive this really is.

That hadn't really occurred to her when they used the map to sneak around the castle as mischievous children.

Her eyes must linger too long because Minerva hums, "Hmm yes. It seems I'll need to send Argus up to the third floor again. Mister Brocklehurst has a nasty habit of 'accidentally' wandering into the girl's loo. Oddly, it only seems to happen when Miss Finch is also in attendance. But enough about the constant and timeless realities of adolescent fornication, it seems Filius has an hour available just after lunch."

Indeed, the label just above Professor Flitwick's map marker shows one o'clock as 'planning and personal research'."

With a sudden clap of Minerva's hands, Hermione is startled with an elf pops into the room. "Headmistress is needing Dibbles?"

"Tea, if you would, please. For myself and Miss Granger."

"M-m-miss… Granger?" The little elf covers his head with his spindly hands and twirls in place, large eyes landing on Hermione.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm not going to knit you a hat as I sit here. Two sugars, if you please." She crosses her arms, looking disgruntled, and the elf can't pop away fast enough.

Minerva chuckles. This time, there's no mistaking the sound. "Given up on the plight of the house elves, have you?"

Frustrated, Hermione purses her mouth and retorts, "Maybe I've just forgotten my needles."

Only a moment passes before Dibbles returns with a small tea tray holding two cups in a china pattern matching the shortbread plate and a silver teapot on dainty legs.

"Thank you. That will be all." With a final glance of distrust at Hermione, the elf disappears with Minerva's dismissal. "Now, Miss Granger, how else can Hogwarts be of assistance to you today?"

"Hermione, if you please," she says politely, taking a nibble of her biscuit. "I have a bit of a curiosity regarding a portrait that has come into my possession. I was hoping to speak with Professor Flitwick about the Charms aspect, and perhaps consult the library."

She nods and assures Hermione that will be no trouble. They sip their tea and small talk overtakes the conversation. Eventually it turns to Hermione's partner.

"How's Severus?" Minerva asks over the rim of her cup. "Not too insufferable, I hope."

Grinning, she assures the woman, "He's absolutely unbearable. Though, as I understand it from the St. Mungos staff, not half as impossible as he was during treatment."

"I am happy he found a friend in you. He's had very little in the way of positive companionship. It seems, in hindsight, the only person who really knew him at all was Albus."

"Who used him in his own personal puppet show. Just like he used Harry."

Hermione almost expects to be chastised for her opinions on what many in the wizarding world see as a father figure and a hero. Instead, Minerva smirks against her cup and says, "Hear that, Albus? It seems our Miss Granger has your number."

Hermione hears a familiar soft chuckle and looks up to the portrait on the wall. She lowers her lids in annoyance and breathes out a chilly, "Headmaster. You're looking well."

"As are you, Miss Granger. Tell me, does my dear friend Professor Snape share your assessment of our relationship?"

"Severus," she says very pointedly, "doesn't share much with me about the war. He's not comfortable thinking about it. I can't imagine the horrors he witnessed."

"Or participated in," Minerva offers with a grimace. Whether the expression is distaste for what Severus has done, or that the man had been forced into positions to do so, is not clear to Hermione.

With that, Hermione has had enough visiting. She respects her former Transfiguration instructor greatly, but watching Dumbledore's eyes twinkle at her when he was the orchestrator of untold misery is just about all she can bear. "Thank you so much for your hospitality, Minerva, but I must be back to the shop before closing. Would you mind if I make my way to the library?"

The other woman stands as Hermione does and gives her an understanding smile. "Of course. I'll let Filius know you will be by to visit. You remember the way to the library, I'm sure."

They share a small laugh at Hermione's swotty expense, and she bids the Headmistress a good afternoon.

The door is just closing behind her when she hears, "It seems I'm not the only who disapproved of your despicable games, Albus," and it makes Hermione smile.

Hogwarts is bustling as she makes her way to the library, and it makes Hermione's heart light. All of these students, with no more care or stress than remembering their texts for History of Magic or hoping Slughorn doesn't pull a brew assignment from one of Snape's old tomes. It's as the world should be, should have been, for Hermione. She swallows bitterness down with the taste of Minerva's tea, and instead chooses to feel pride for helping set the world to rights.

Some of the students recognize her as she makes her way through the corridors. She offers a nod to a pair of Hufflepuffs that watch her pass, and you would think she anointed them with holy water for the reverent gazes they offer in return.

The relief is palpable when she enters the library, her heels clicking on the stone, to the ever stoic Madame Pince shushing her. Hermione offers a sheepish look and holds one finger to her lips in a sign of quieting herself. The woman watches her, eyes narrowed, as if Hermione is some sort of heretic in a sacred place.

She's never felt more at home.

Trailing her fingertips along the spines as she passes, Hermione winds her way toward the section devoted to charmed objects. There seems to be a small collection of books that are devoted to the creation of portraits and the laws and limits of that particular magic. Taking the stack, she levitates them carefully to a nearby desk, one that was once her favorite for researching ways to keep Harry Potter out of scrapes, and begins to read.

She finds a story of a set of portraits corrupted by confusing two siblings. A brother and sister sat their portraits together, and the personalities mingled, making the portraits confused as to which person they were charmed to be. They argued incessantly until they were finally destroyed in a house fire in 1764.

Another book that studies the process by which a portrait is created and charmed warns of ineffective spell work that might leave an image animated, but with a rather blank and generic personality rather than that of the original subject.

Nowhere does she locate anything about a portrait proclaiming to be more than it is within the information she skims. Her time, however, has grown short, and she needs to make her way to Professor Flitwick's office. She will return after their meeting if he does not prove more knowledgeable.

"Professor, thank you so much for meeting with me." If Hermione expects Flitwick to correct her with a 'no, no, please, call me Filius', she would be disappointed. Her relationship with this particular instructor was never more than a strictly professional and impersonal one. Where she would consider McGonagall... Minerva... a mentor, Professor Flitwick is simply one of the instructors who shaped her education and nothing more.

Still, he is an authority on Charms. Often looked at as a lesser branch of magic, he is one of the few great masters to take this field seriously. More than dancing tea cups and twinkling lights, if anyone will comprehend the severity of a botched portrait, it is him.

"Miss Granger, a pleasure to see you again. I trust you are finding the Wizarding World to your liking? Now that all that Death Eater business is dealt with, hmm?"

She blinks. "I... yes. Yes, all is well." His phrasing is so flippant, it throws Hermione momentarily off her game. With a minute head shake, she moves quickly to the purpose of her visit, lest he derail her completely with his odd whimsical ways.

"I was telling the headmistress, I seem to have a Charms related challenge, and I could think of no one better to consult."

"Yes, yes, so she mentioned. Please," he gestures to one of student desks in front of his lecture desk. She slips in behind it as he takes his place on the chair that magically increases his stature, looking down on her, and suddenly she feels fourteen again. "You have a portrait, she says, that is acting peculiar?"

She nods and elaborates, "I've met many portraits... if met is the right word... but I've never encountered one that seemed to be confused on its nature. The portraits here," she sweeps her arm around the room, gesturing half-heartedly to the dozen or so portraits that line Flitwick's classroom, "are all fully aware that they are just that. This particular one insists he is alive and trapped inside."

"Strange indeed," he hums. "And how did you acquire said portrait?"

"Oh, well it's not technically mine. It was part of the Black inheritance that Harry received."

"How is young Mister Potter?" He asks with sprightly excitement and a small bounce of his body in his chair.

"He's good," she says, though she's not sure that's entirely true. He works too hard, interacts socially with virtually no one but his ex-girlfriend's family, has no family connections of his own, and lives with his best girlfriend who is a bit of a mess herself. All in all, his progress is arrested at best, but this is just polite conversation, so she reiterates, "Very, very well. Finished Auror training and started his position just a few weeks ago." There, a little red meat for the gossip hound.

"I knew he'd do well," he says with what Hermione has heard Severus refer to as his 'irritatingly adorable smugness'.

A beat in which Hermione simply looks at him, and he waves his hand around. "But, enough about that, yes? So this portrait is from the House of Black. Might there be some dark magic at work? If we want to believe it is more than it seems, we should entertain the notion it holds more than the usual charm work. Something left from the original subject."

"Like... like a horcrux?" Hermione screws up her forehead as she considers, but then answers her own question. "I don't believe so, Sir. I've been around a horcrux... held it. I believe I'd recognize the signs."

"Not a horcrux then," he allows, "but something else, perhaps? I've never come across anything in my readings of the like but, in this world, Miss Granger, anything is possible."

The twinkle in his eye is reminiscent of Dumbledore, and Hermione finds it a little disconcerting. "What of ghost lore then? Could it be... like a ghost? Trapped within a painting? A haunted painting?"

"Could be," he muses. "I will be honest and say I do not believe so. Ghosts are echos of the past, a shadow of a soul. While a horcrux is a piece of it, easily stowed and stuffed inside various bobbles, a shadow is more elusive. Harder to contain. However," he goes on wistfully, "we live in a fantastic world, do we not? I would never deny the possibility of anything, unless you can prove to me otherwise."

"That's rather scientific of you," she notes, and he chuckles at her.

"Or rather spiritual. I would be arrogant to assume I know all of what is possible in this world. Do you believe in what you cannot see, Miss Granger?"

"I... I mean, I can't see magic, but I believe in it."

"Ah, but that's different as you can see its effects. You have proof of something, whatever its name is. What of that which is beyond this world? Do you fancy yourself a spiritual sort? What happens to those of us who are not ghosts? Do we simply return to the soil? Is that what your muggle science teaches you?"

She doesn't appreciate what seems a condescending question, but answers anyway. "I am a daughter of science, yes. Even magic has rules that support the findings of muggle research. Something can never come from nothing, even in magic. So... yes, to understand where even magic has its source, I suppose I believe there might be a something... more in this world and after."

He nods, seeming satisfied. "As do I, Miss Granger. Perhaps what you have cannot be explained because magic, like science, is limited by what we know. Perhaps whatever this is, is something else entirely."

The twinkle has evolved and is almost manic with excitement. He does truly love his field.

She wrinkles her brow, looking for clarification. "So, you're saying it might be a ghost."

He smiles indulgently. "I'm saying it might be anything, Miss Granger, anything at all, but that I have no first or second hand knowledge of anything like it. Perhaps you should consult an authority on dark magic. But if you find it to be safe of any evil properties, you could consider bringing it to the school. I would love to take a look at it. Perhaps try some spells and incantations. You know... experiment. Like those muggle scientists."

Something about that gleam in his eye makes Hermione suddenly a bit protective of Draco.

Which is ridiculous, of course, since he's not Draco. But what if it was Nearly Headless Nick someone wanted to place on a proverbial slab? A ghost might only be an echo of a soul, but it's a bit too close for Hermione to think entirely as an 'it' when this particular one has been so emotionally open with her.

Realizing that, at the very least, there are no answers here, only philosophical speculation, she stands and thanks her once professor. "I appreciate your time, sir. I think I will continue as you suggest and confirm it is safe before... exposing anyone else."

"Yes, yes. Quite responsible. Do give Severus my regards, won't you?"

She agrees that, of course, she will, and bids Flitwick farewell.

Minerva may be stern, Severus might be a bit of a git, but Filius Flitwick is far more unsettling than she had recalled.

She returns to the library to finish skimming the books she had found and, in all the centuries of charms history housed at this great institution, finds exactly no instances of a portrait in denial or a ghost trapped within one.

She floos home, standing firmly back on square one.


	7. Chapter 7

"Oh, Harry, thank you! You're the best." Hermione beams at her friend as he drapes her robes over her bed and lays her shoes neatly against the wall by the door. She's been holed up in her room working on some paperwork for the shop and, apparently, forgot her items from where she shucked them off at the front door.

"She has you properly trained, eh, Potter?"

Hermione and Harry turn twin glares on the portrait who chuckles at them.

"I don't mind helping my friend, Malfoy," Harry bites back. "I certainly owe Hermione plenty for her help in the war. Picking up a pair of shoes is nothing."

Hermione flushes a little, embarrassed in spite of Harry's words. She hasn't intended to milk his gratitude and, honestly, didn't realize he felt that way. She doesn't expect him to pick up after her. She's simply a bit messy, and he does it anyway.

"You don't owe me anything, Harry," she says quietly.

Harry laughs and contradicts, "I probably owe you my life, in actual fact, but you'll have to be content with my mediocre dinners."

"Wait, wait," Draco says through a grin, "he  _cooks_  for you too? Oh that's just too precious."

"Well, as delightful as this was, Hermione," Harry interjects, dripping with sarcasm, "I'm heading out on some errands. You might want to relocate to the library. Can't imagine you can get anything done in here…" He offers one last annoyed glance at Draco, then leaves, closing the door behind him.

"So, is this why McLaggen doesn't have a chance? Going to make an honest woman out of St. Potter instead, are you?"

"That is just incredibly sexist, Malfoy. Harry is not less of a man because he happens to be proficiently domestic. I don't appreciate that on Harry's behalf or from my sex."

She is looking back down at her work and trying desperately to ignore the smirking man in the portrait behind her.

"I apologize," he says, clearly not apologetic at all. "As an aside, I quite like hearing you say 'sex'," he leers. "But I digress. And the base of my question remains."

She lays down her quill, obviously not able to concentrate with his slightly flirtatious nattering. Perhaps moving to the library is a good idea, matter of fact. Before she can gather her things, though, he continues, "I mean, you live together, he cooks for you, cleans. You spend your evenings together… Just seems as though it would be a matter of time before he took you to bed."

Hermione wrinkles her nose at him. "I assure you, our relationship is nothing like that. Harry is… well, he's like family," she says honestly. "I love him dearly. In some ways, he's all I have." She snaps her mouth closed, wishing she hadn't made that cryptic comment and hoping it doesn't lead to questions. "I mean, since I don't have any wizarding family." There, that should make it less depressing. She has no desire to regale Malfoy with the sad tale of the Grangers that were.

"What of the Weasley brood? I thought you were sort of an honorary litter mate or something."

"I find it somewhat less comfortable," she sniffs, "since Ron and I didn't work out. They mean a lot to me, of course, but someday Ron will bring home another girl. I don't imagine I will feel as welcome as I once did with some slag staring at me across the dinner table."

He chuckles again, and it is really irritating. "The poor girl doesn't even have an identity yet, and you've already reduced her to a slag. Who's sexist now, Granger?"

"I… that is… ugh, you are infuriating! I'm going to the library."

A flash of what almost looks like panic flies across his face. "You don't need to do that," he says quickly. "I mean… you should stay. Just a bit of fun, Granger, I don't actually think you to be narrow minded."

Alarmingly close to an apology, Hermione finds herself pausing as she stacks her parchments. She considers it for only a moment before she concedes. "Thank you," she says, knowing what it must have cost him and his painted pride. He's told her before, in various intangible ways, that he is lonely. She elects to stay in spite of his rather poor way of showing that he appreciates her company.

He's quiet for a while after that, browsing through a book, and Hermione finds herself swept away in cost percentages, overhead, and inventory. She couldn't say how much time passes, but eventually she hears him clear his throat.

"Have you… found anything new?" She looks back over her shoulder, and he is steadfastly not meeting her gaze. "That is, regarding my situation. I just… we hadn't spoken of it in a couple of days, and I wondered, you know, if there was anything… new."

Her heart breaks all over again, and she shakes her head with completely sincere regret.

She should tell him. Merlin, she should just own up and tell him that the Aurors have confirmed his death, the Ministry declared him dead, and no one is looking for Draco Malfoy anymore. She should be the brave witch she's rumoured to be and give him the truth so he can accept it. She can still research breaking this curse or fixing his faulty charm or whatever this is, but without continuing this pretense. She should…

He finally lifts his gaze to meet hers, those intense grey eyes, deep as an autumn sky, look back at her with desperate hope.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," she says instead of the truth. "I went to Hogwarts and conferred with Professor Flitwick, but he didn't have any information of a situation like yours."

He wrinkles his nose in confusion. "Charms? Shouldn't you try… I don't know, Defense, or something?"

"My research up to now has mostly been more along the line of curses and dark magic," she answers more honestly, "but I thought I should try some other avenues. Unfortunately, he didn't have knowledge of anything like this. The Hogwarts library was equally not helpful."

"Well… I appreciate you going, Granger. I know you're busy. With your own life."

He sounds clipped and frustrated and a little sad. She's thoughtful and tries to subtly watch him as he falls into a quiet state, staring at nothing as he sits on his usual sofa, chin resting on his hand and eyes lidded with melancholy.

Hermione looks down and closes the ledger. "Well," she says loudly, trying to pretend she hasn't been staring at him out of the corner of her eye, "I think that's close enough to finished. Fancy a game or something?" She busies herself cleaning up her papers, trying to give him the privacy to put his emotions, where he always seems to keep them, hidden and in check.

"I knew you'd warm up to me," he quips, and his mask of indifference and arrogance is firmly back in place.

It doesn't take long, after that first instance, for their games of trivia and knowledge to become almost nightly events. Within a couple of weeks, Hermione has sought out her own copies of at least a dozen of the books in Draco's portrait so that they can properly compete. She still takes her meals with Harry when he is home, thinking it would be the epitome of rudeness to accept his cooking efforts but not keep him company. He cooks at least four nights each week, having various and vague plans on other evenings.

Some nights, after dinner, Hermione makes her way to the shop to check on potions, but, suddenly having something…someone…to occupy her evenings, she makes more of an effort to schedule her potions. It doesn't take a great deal of effort on most of the potions they brew, if she's honest, to plan the start times so that she doesn't need to be out so late.

It's an effort she never afforded Ron while they dated. Or anyone, actually. Maybe she doesn't feel any obligation or bitterness because Draco has never asked. He never nags her about her career or makes her feel like she had to choose between her relationships and her passion. She's been given more respect and room to make choices from a dead man's image than she ever was by the wizard who was supposed to be the love of her life.

Perhaps Draco gives her more space because he has no choice but to be patient and flexible, forever immortalized in paint on canvas, stationary and alone. Or perhaps, it's just how civilized people treat their partners and friends. Sadly, she supposes, she will never know, since Draco will always just be a portrait and Ron will always be a selfish man-child.

Or, so she assumes. Ron might surprise them all yet.

She's laughing now, free and open and loud, and it feels amazing. It's a lazy Thursday night, and Harry is out of town on official Auror business, leaving Hermione and Draco on their own to their games and the conversations that spawn from them.

"That's ridiculous, Malfoy! You can't possibly believe that nonsense."

He shrugs at her, studying his nails. "I have no evidence to the contrary."

"I just… no wonder you hated muggleborns. I'd hate us too if I believed muggles were monsters. We do not skin our pets to make our furniture!"

"Well maybe you didn't, Granger, but rumors start somewhere. What happens to your animals when they die?"

"Pets, specifically, I assume you mean. Some people bury them, especially if they have a home with a garden. I suppose there are the occasional families that have them stuffed."

"Stuffed? What does that mean?"

"Taxidermy. It's a way of preserving an animal for display. Some people who really adore their pets do this so the pet can stay with them forever."

"See?" he declares, pointing randomly at her like she just proved his point. "There. Might as well be furniture if you're displaying their hide in your bloody house."

"That's a stretch at best," she chuckles. "I shudder to think all the things you were taught about muggles growing up. Were you told they eat wizarding children for breakfast and bathe in the blood of unicorns, too? I can't believe that you, who seems like an intelligent wizard, ever believed such fanciful nonsense."

He rolls his eyes and tries to look really put out, but Hermione can see the smile threatening to tug at his lips.

"I was warned that they are absolutely barbaric hosts who ridicule their poor, poor guests," he pouts, and she laughs once again.

Hermione can't remember the last time she was this relaxed. Having Draco's portrait invade her space had seemed such a burden in the beginning. Now she finds she is enjoying his banter, his knowledge, and his general presence. It's so tragic she never knew him this way in life. It has occurred to her on more than one occasion that they could have been friends, if circumstances were different. Star-crossed indeed.

"I wish it could have always been like this," she blurts out, unthinking, and then blushes profusely for her trouble.

Draco cocks an eyebrow at her. "How's that? Me at your mercy, unable to lick my wounds properly in solitude when you trample on my poor heart?" He lays his hand dramatically over on his chest, swooning, and she giggles.

"No, I mean… I know it couldn't ever happen, back in school. But… you've really surprised me. Were you always like this? Deep down where I could never see?"

He stops fighting the grin and offers her one of those knicker-melting sideways smiles she's only seen in pin ups and muggle movie posters. "Was I always incredibly charming, handsome, and hilarious? Oh, my dear Granger, you have no idea."

Her cheeks feel warm, the knowledge of which makes them heat up even more. "I just think… I guess it's stupid, lamenting the past… but I think we could have been friendly. In a different world."

"We're friendly now," he offers, palpably more sober than before.

Hermione smiles, hoping it isn't tinged with too much in sorrow, and agrees, "We are. At least there's that, right?"

"Granger… I don't want you to think…" She sees him trying to work through something, licking his lips and eyes darting the room for answers. "That is, I honestly do enjoy our time. It isn't just…" Draco sighs and starts again, meeting her gaze finally. "I don't feel… stuck here. I don't wish I was anywhere else. I can't think of anywhere that would be preferable to having landed here. With you."

Her breath catches lightly, caught in the sincere lock of his eyes. There is a silence, no longer than a heartbeat, but it feels like forever as the world expands and contracts within her lungs, and Hermione feels a slight panic at the implication.

Buggering fuck, I have a thing for a portrait.

Then he smiles again and quips, "I mean, except perhaps being free and living in my glorious manor, surrounding by piles of galleons and good whiskey… but, you know… besides that."

She laughs, the tension dissolving in the sound of it, and he joins her.

"What time is it?" he asks, and Hermione suddenly realizes how tired she is.

Glancing at the clock, she gasps softly. "Merlin, Draco, it's three in the morning."

She looks up and finds him staring, eyebrow back in that jaunty little cock of his. "Draco, is it?"

"I…" Well this is problematic. Realizing she might have a bit of an infatuation with an inanimate object is frustrating enough. The object knowing it, however, is far more embarrassing.

She isn't sure if she should just own the mistake or try to backtrack out of it. The truth is, she has often referred to him by his given name in conversation, just never to his face. Whenever she had discussed the Astronomy tower with Harry or relived the horrors of his manor during the war, she almost always mentioned him as Draco.

But never… ever… to his face.

"Sorry," she blurts out, unsure if he is offended. Unsure if he thinks she has no right to be that familiar. She always felt using his name was something she was expected to avoid. He didn't respect her and she couldn't stand him. Things are different now, of course, but is this a line she should have kept drawn?

"No need to apologize," he assures her. "I just didn't realize we had reached another milestone. I suppose if you are going to prance about in a towel and no knickers, we must have reached first name status."

His expression has turned wolfish, and Hermione tries to dig up some pride from the rubble of her mortification. She hasn't indulged in the towel scenario in some time, realizing she was starting to play a dangerous game and not sure where it would go. Where it could go.

So she cocks her head and lifts her chin and says, "Alright then. 'Draco' it is. Unless you're being an utter prat, and then I'll go back to Malfoy or ferret or something."

"Granger," he laughs, "after all of this, being a ferret for three minutes doesn't seem quite as bad as it did at the time. You call me whatever you want, Princess."

Her grin is instantaneous and her mood suddenly playful. "Princess? Why, Draco, that almost sounds like an endearment. Have we reached another relationship milestone so soon?"

"Not sure how many we can hope to reach while I'm stuck in here, but I've missed our banter, love. And that knickers trick you were so very fond of for a while."

"It was not a trick," she protests on instinct, but he clucks his tongue at her.

"It's quite alright. No need to play coy now. Did you want my attention, Granger? You have it." Grey eyes, unblinking and charged, rake over her, and Hermione isn't sure she is prepared to play whatever game she seems to have started, after all.

"It's late," she says, panicked. "I need to be at the shop by ten, so I really should…" She trails off, gesturing toward the bed, and then makes her way over to it. She's already comfortable in lounge pants and a cotton shirt, so she simply slips under the covers and flicks her wand at the single low light in the room.

Breath coming quick and trying to slow the mild race of her heart, she says softly, an afterthought to her own inner turmoil, "Good night, Draco."

He doesn't say anything and exhaustion of the late hour finally starts to diminish her panic, the rhythm of her heart and the rise of her chest slowing in the dark of her room. Sleep has almost come when she hears him reply, soft and gentle as the breeze, "Good night, Beautiful."

It is at least an hour before she is able to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

"Looks beautiful," Hermione comments to Harry on the Black family tapestry. It has just been returned to the parlour after extensive repair work.

"It does. It  _should_ ," he corrects with a little humor. "Restoration cost a fortune." They are standing together, shoulder to shoulder, at the entrance to the room, looking over the illustrated representation of the family tree.

Hermione steps closer and runs a finger across the name 'Andromeda'. "It's amazing that they were even able to restore it."

Harry moves beside her and also looks over the name of Andromeda Tonks, Nymphadora, and then Teddy just beneath. Remus Lupin is connected over on his own branch. It makes Hermione simultaneously happy to see the family represented as they should be, but full of sorrow as she runs her eyes over all the dates of their deaths.

Following a line from Andromeda to Narcissa, she runs her fingertip down to Draco Malfoy, sharing the same date for his demise. "Part of me," she says quietly, "thought maybe it wouldn't be there."

Harry nods in her peripheral. "It's not conclusive," he allows. "We," he says of himself in a way that she assumes means 'the Aurors', "rarely use tapestries as evidence. So easy to tamper with. But the detections didn't find any outside influence had been cast. Only charms specific to the Black family. Mostly striking off the traitors," he says with a disgusted grimace.

"I know," she says, sofly. "It was just a hope."

"Have you told him?" Harry asks, but she feels like he already knows the answer.

"Not yet. I've not completely given up being able to break the curse. I just… I would rather have good news with the bad."

"No progress on that front, I suppose?" Harry steps away as he asks, moving across the room to the sofa against the north wall.

Hermione takes it as a cue and follows. Settling into his side, he throws his arm around her shoulder as she tilts her head to rest on his. She answers, "Not yet. I had a floo consultation with the Defense instructor at Ilvermorny yesterday. She'd never heard of anything even remotely like this, and she even specializes in non-physically violent curses. I thought for sure she might know something…"

They fall into a quiet for a few moments when Harry says slowly, "You know, the space that tapestry is in, it's really large enough for a portrait. I mean, I was going to hang it over there," he points to their left, "when those built-ins are removed, but if it really bothers you…?"

He looks down at her, and Hermione truly considers it. When she answers, she does so truthfully, not just to do Harry a favour. "I don't mind. I feel guilty I've not been completely upfront with him, but moving him won't help that. It will just add guilt that I'll know he's lonely. Just… let's leave him there for now."

Nodding, Harry agrees, and they don't think to consider moving the portrait again in the coming days.

In her room that evening, Draco interrupts their trivia session to ask, "You don't… mind that I'm here do you? I know I gave you a hard time in the beginning… and occasional current days, but I do appreciate what you've done for me. Even this," he gestures to the book in his lap. "I know you could be a million places with a million other wizards. I just… wanted to say thank you."

She smiles at him, the ever-present guilt waning in favour of the giddy feeling of a crush. "I don't mind at all," she says honestly. "I'm enjoying myself. Couldn't imagine being better off anywhere else."

He gives her a once over, flirtatious smirk in place. "I could imagine an improvement though. Can't you?"

She catches the drift and flushes warm, imagining him crossing the room to touch her.

It's hot today. July is shaping up to be a sweltering month, and even the most adept cooling charms haven't been able to keep the heat at bay. Diagon is full of fussy, agitated people asking fussy, agitated questions and rarely liking the answers poor Penelope gives them. Hermione stays in the back, out of sight. Unfortunately, that's the hottest room in the shop.

Naturally curly hair is not suited to the weather any more than Hermione is, and she has spent the better part of the afternoon trying to wrangle it into some form of control. Especially, leaned over as she has been above a hot cauldron. Snape, obviously not immune to the uncomfortable heat either, has been sniping at anyone who looked in his direction. She finishes and bottles only one brew and leaves the moment that task is done.

It's a pleasure to finally arrive at Grimmauld, the cool air inside a relief as soon as she crosses the threshold. With a greeting hollered across the house to Harry, she lets him know she will be headed to her room for a bit and see him shortly. Dinner, he tells her, will be another hour or more, so there is no rush.

When she enters her bedroom, she finds Draco as she often does: lounging on his sofa, a book in his hand, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. He looks completely refreshed and comfortable, and it's a very welcome sight after a long day.

He looks up at her in greeting, and it makes her heart jump when he grins like he is desperately pleased to see her. She supposes, their odd relationship withstanding, that he is. "Good afternoon, Granger."

"Draco," she greets back pleasantly. "Back to muggle literature I see?" She nods her head at the copy of Anais Nin's anthology of erotica. Though she has seen him with muggle books in hand before, it is the first time for this particular copy. The thought sends a little shiver to her core, that she is having a casual conversation while his eyes play over scenes of erotic men and women loving each other illicitly.

He eyes her a moment and finally licks his lips, placing the book to the side. "You've read it," he asks. There seems to be a challenge there.

She nods and answers as flippantly as she can, "I have. I found it oddly melancholy given the general subject matter."

"But compelling," he notes, and it has the barest hint at a question, begging her to answer.

"At times," she allows, busying herself with taking off her shoes and the light suit jacket she wore to the shop. She emerges from the closet in only the thin lavender sundress she wore beneath and plods barefoot across the floor. Stopping at her chest of drawers, she selects a pair of knickers and heads to the en suite.

"I'm just going to take a quick shower. Be back in two shakes." He acknowledges with what sounds like disappointment.

In the small room, water running to reach the correct temperature, she looks herself over in the mirror, trying to cool her blood in more ways than one. The heat of the day has seeped into her pores, and now she is considering the image of the wizard in the other room with a completely different type of warmth.

Showering quickly, she tosses her sundress back on and returns, wringing the bulk of the water from her hair with a small towel. Caught up as she is in her ritual, she glides back across the room and perches on the bed, facing the portrait and a Draco Malfoy who is intently staring back.

"Do you have a favorite?"

The lapse in conversation has her confused a moment and she questions, "A favorite what?"

"Scene. Chapter." He lifts the book in his hand, prodding her to come back to the conversation they'd barely skimmed when she entered. "Was there a particular… character who stood out for you?"

Hermione can feel the blush suffuse her cheeks. He's asking what sexual circumstance was the most stimulating? Their banter and conversations, while occasionally slip into flirtatious, hasn't been this overt very often. Now, he's giving her that look again that makes her want to melt into a puddle. Her knickers seem to have a head start on that front.

"I don't… It's been some time. Since I've read it, I mean."

"Do you have others? Books like this?" His voice is low and rough, and if there was any question he is seducing her, she no longer has any doubts. How long has this been building? How long have they been dancing around one another? She knows, for her, there has been attraction for a long time. In recent days, even more than that. She's drawn to him; the way he speaks to her, looks at her. He is interesting and alluring, and treats her with an unexpected level of respect, considering who he used to be.

Hermione licks her lips, tired of over-thinking every step in her life: Exhausted of worrying over implications or perceptions. So she is having sexual thoughts with a portrait… what does it matter? No one needs to know, and it is no more depraved than pleasuring herself. At least, no more so than using something like the book in his hand to aide in release.

Slowly, she relaxes, allowing her legs to part slightly at the knee. Hermione leans back a bit on the bed and pretends to think carefully before answering. "I might have a few. It's a shame I can't loan you books, isn't it?"

He picks up on a thread she hadn't even intended to lay down. "You could read them to me." His husky tone makes her breath come faster. That idea suddenly sounds like the sexiest thing in the world. Reading erotic fiction to Draco while he stares her down. Would he touch himself to her voice? Would he palm his erection over this trousers? Would he pull it out to stroke his fist down the length?

Then she imagines a reversal of that particular fantasy, his low, seductive voice echoing in her ears, and offers boldly, "Or you could read that to me." She nods her head, indicating the book he has set aside.

A slow grin crawls across his face and he wets his lips in response. "Would you like that, Granger? Shall I read you one of my favorites?"

She nods, not trusting her voice. Now that she has effectively turned the tables on herself, what is her part to play? It seems there is an expectation here. Does he expect a performance? Looking at him through her lashes, his eyes smoldering and his chest rising with quick breaths, she might just give him one.

His gaze doesn't leave hers as he picks up the book. Finally looking down, he thumbs through until he settles on his chosen passage.

"I have been reading Elena," he says.

Hermione grins. "That's no surprise. What red blooded male wouldn't choose the character with the lesbian menage a trois?"

Draco's smile is wolfish. "Ah, so you do remember it then? Did you enjoy her story, Hermione?"

Her breath catches at her name on his tongue. Has he ever said it before? If he has, certainly not like that. Like butter on his demon tongue. Has he ever looked at her this way? For all of the sexually charged banter, this is the most forward, the most obvious they have been.

She bites back a groan with her perfect teeth sunk into her lip. "It was a memorable chapter."

"It is. Now, relax, love. Listen…"

She's mesmerized by this low timbre and the intensity of his gaze. Then he speaks, and his voice, smooth as velvet, honey-rich, washes over her, drowning her and warming her already rosy flesh.

"In the shadow of this statue, they moved toward each other, without a word, without a smile. Even their hands did not move. As they met, Jean pressed Elena against the statue. They did not kiss or touch each other with their hands."

He looks up at her and Hermione feels enraptured, imagining standing so close to Draco, pressed together but not caressing, not exploring yet. He holds her gaze a moment, and she wonders if he is imagining the same, before he continues.

"Only their torsos met, repeating in warm human flesh the welding of the bodies of the statue above them." Draco reads slowly, measured, letting words play over his tongue in that beautiful drawl she's become so intimately familiar with. Hermione imagines he is the sort of man who likes to take his time. To explore.

"He pressed his genitals against hers with a low, entranced rhythm, as if he would thus enter her body. He slid down, as if he were going to kneel at her feet, only to rise again, this time carrying her dress upwards under his pressure…"

He pauses then and drifts his gaze over her form. Hermione finds she is gripping the hem of her dress, playing with the skin just underneath. He looks expectant. Waiting. She has a feeling she knows what he is waiting for, and she gently slides the fabric up the slope of her thighs. Once she can feel her fingertips playing at the edges of her knickers, she hesitates. Aroused and equally unsure, she looks back to him for a cue. Is this what he wanted? Is she?

He watches, eyes focused on the expanse of her thigh she has just revealed, teasing with the barest hint of the trim on her knickers. When she stills, he looks back to the book, starting again on a shaky intake of breath.

"Again he pressed against her, sometimes moving from left to right or right to left, sometimes in circles, sometimes, pushing into her with compressed violence. She felt the bulk of his desire rubbing as if he were lighting a fire with two stones, drawing sparks each time he moved, and finally she slid downwards as if in a light-bodied dream. She fell in a heap, caught between his legs, and now he wanted to fix this position, to eternalize it," he looks up again, locking eyes as he recites, "to nail down her body with the powerful thrust of his swollen virility."

This time, she doesn't stifle the groan and slides her hand ever higher, revealing the lace and satin covering her sex. Draco's grip on the book tightens as his arms drop, the book slipping onto his lap. He watches her as she traces one delicate fingertip down the center of her slit, breath hitching, then releases a series of shallow pants. She is wet through, the satin damp to the touch.

Hermione looks back at his grey eyes and, feeling bold, brave on the heels of desire, requests, "Keep going. Keep reading and I'll…continue as well."

Draco's answering expression is a set to his jaw that looks very much like a bid to keep control. She'd love to watch that control slip, to see him come undone under her gaze. If they keep going this way, she hopes very much that is where they are headed.

"They moved again," he continues, voice husky and deep, "she to offer the deepest recesses of her femininity, and he to bind them together. She contracted to feel his presence more, moving with a gasp of unbearable joy, as if she had touched the most valuable point of his being."

He stops again if only to watch her, and Hermione preens under his attention. His eyes follow the movement of her hand, fingertips petting down her center and rubbing gentle circles over her clit through the fabric. When she presses her whole hand over her mound, her middle finger pressing deep between her folds, she moans, and Draco finally answers her with his own low growl.

She looks and finds he has put the book to the side and leaned back against the sofa, his palm held tight against the bulging fabric of his trousers. Hermione licks her lips and slides one finger underneath her knickers, finding that she is even more primed than she anticipated. The image of Draco sliding inside her, cock stretching her even as her wet passage gives no resistance, elicits another moan which he answers once again. First with a moan, and then with his delicious voice directing their play.

"That's it. Touch yourself for me. Let me look at you, Granger. Let me see your pretty cunt."

If she thought his gorgeous voice reading erotic literature was seductive, it has nothing on this more illicit Draco. An entitled boy grown into a very proper gentleman, she's never seen him so raw. So completely, inappropriately, delightfully vulgar.

She's helpless but to comply and slides the satin down her legs until it is dangling on one ankle then kicked off unceremoniously across the room. Her legs fall open just a little further, and he has an unobstructed view of her neatly trimmed sex.

"Fuck, yes," he hisses out, and she watches as his palm strokes with deeper rhythm across his length.

Enjoying the exhibition of the entire affair, Hermione returns her attention to her own pleasure, dipping one finger between her folds and dragging the wetness up to her clit. She circles that spot slowly, watching his reaction.

Hermione is hardly disappointed when it seems his breathing is becoming more and more labored and his strokes increase in speed.

"Let me see," she dares him. "Show me how you touch yourself."

As if he was waiting for that exact invitation, Draco unbuttons his trousers and lifts his bum off the sofa to shimmy them down his legs, pants and all. He wastes no time in gripping his erection, running first over the head to collect the pre-cum there, then stroking slowly, keeping his eyes firmly on Hermione.

Hermione knows she has never in her life been this turned on. Not with Ron. Not with Cormac. Not with anyone or even by herself, alone with her most perfect fantasies. She pushes back farther onto the bed so she can lean against the pillows at her back and bring her feet onto the mattress. The position allows her to use her free hand to caress her breast through her dress, pinching and flicking at the peak and cupping the weight of it in her hand. Her eyes never leave Draco who seems to particularly enjoy her actions. He watches her obsessively and then groans and throws his head back against the sofa. He doesn't remain that way long, quickly lifting his head and watching her once again.

His rhythm has changed with her position. As soon as she bent her knees and planted her feet, letting her knees drape open, he had sped his strokes, tugging at his cock and looking like he might devour her.

He's too quiet, and Hermione realizes just how seduced she had been by his voice. "Talk to me," she begs. "Tell me what you want."

"Fucking hell, Granger, I want to fuck you. I want your cunt, tight around me. I want to pound into you until you're screaming. Begging for me. I want to slide my fingers inside you, then lick your taste off my hand. I… fuck…" His strokes are erratic and Hermione's pace is feverish, back and forth across her clit. "I want to watch you come, Granger. Come for me, pretty witch-"

"Holy… fuck…Draco!"

"That's it… oh, my fucking… hnng…"

Hermione's body bucks and quivers with her release, knees slamming shut and her hand cupping her quim. She closes her eyes and rides out the most powerful orgasm she's ever experienced, dimly aware of Draco shouting his own climax as she does.

"Merlin, you are fucking gorgeous when you come."

Opening her eyes, she finds Draco studying her, his softening erection still held in his hand. Now would be the time, if it's ever going to come, to feel embarrassed or ashamed. But she finds she can't drudge up any emotion beyond satisfaction. "Thank you," she purrs, voice rough and quiet. "You have the sexiest voice I've ever heard. I could listen to you talk forever."

"Favour me with another performance like that, and I'll talk to you night and day."

She giggles, finally starting to catch her breath and lowering her skirt modestly back over her thighs.

"I can't believe I never tried to shag you before. Fuck, I'm an idiot." He discreetly tucks himself away again and lounges deeper into his couch. "You have got to get me out of here so I can have you properly. You may as well get used to me, Granger. Once I'm free, I'm still not leaving your room."

A bit of melancholy washes over her, sympathy for him and a little bit of feeling sorry for herself that her new-found lover is a dead image, but she smiles at him anyway and chooses to appreciate the sentiment. "I can't say I would complain," she admits, and finds that she very much means it. Her playful relationship with him has become more than just casual interactions and fantasy. If portraits truly represent who their subject was at a moment in time, it is all the more tragic he was lost to this world. She never would have imagined him to be as clever, complimentary, or seductive as she has seen him.

If he were alive, she would make a very serious play to make him hers. How twisted is all of that? Pining over a dead man who used to bully her relentlessly.

Shrugging off all of the heavy reality she has shrouded herself with, she goes back to thinking of the sexual experience they just shared and thinks she might like to try that again.

"I'm going to slip downstairs and see what Harry is doing for dinner. See you when I get back?"

He rolls his eyes in a completely good-natured way. "I don't know, Granger, I might have to step out. Places to go, and all that."

She smiles back and offers him a wave. "I won't be long. Maybe we can… read more, later."

His answering smile is as broad as her own, and his eyes flash with desire as she slips out the door.

On the other side, she leans back against the wood and sighs, knowing how inadvisable it is to have a thing for a painting but unable to deny the truth of it.


	9. Chapter 9

Hermione wakes the next day feeling satisfied and light.

After dinner with Harry, she had returned to her room to find Draco in a particularly playful mood. He had teased and seduced her, coercing her mischievously into another round of mutual play. This time, she had slipped her dress over her head, leaving herself fully nude to his appraising eye. He had likewise shucked off his tidy button-down revealing every inch of his alabaster skin, including the mark of a madman on his arm and the scars across his chest. Though he cut an impressive and arousing figure, she had been distracted to the point of sorrow at what he had suffered.

"That's what Harry did?" She spoke softly. Hermione had approached the canvas, unashamed at her nudity, and let one finger glide softly over the place his scar would be.

"I thought… I was afraid you would be more concerned with this," he'd said, suddenly unsure, lifting his forearm and revealing his mark.

She had shaken her head at him, still eyeing his chest. "I knew about that. But this... Draco, Harry almost killed you."

He'd chuckled softly at her and agreed, "He did. Probably closer than anyone realizes outside of me and Snape. Still got to come out the other side a hero, too." There had been a bitterness in his voice, but tempered with a melancholy resignation.

"He felt terrible," she'd told him. "I know that doesn't make it better, but he never wanted to hurt you like this. He never realized... He still has guilt," she had continued, looking the scar over in disbelief, "and he doesn't even know how bad it really was."

Draco had shrugged at her and swiftly turned the conversation back to other pursuits. "Enough about that. I'd rather talk about you." Eyes raking over her, he had traced his hand along the silhouette of her curves, whistling low. "You're fucking exquisite, Granger. Can we play a bit more tonight?"

Absolutely entranced by him, Hermione had agreed, and they had explored each other visually for hours throughout the night. Afterwards, exhausted and spent, they had laid awake in the dark, talking of trivial and less-than-trivial things.

Hermione learned details she never would have imagined about this man immortalized. He never wanted to be a Seeker but felt compelled to compete with Harry, preferring Keeper of all the Quidditch positions. He loved chocolate his whole life, but thought he hadn't truly lived before discovering La Maison du Chocolate in muggle Paris. His father had punished him, a boy of fifteen at the time, for sneaking away from his family. Later, after the family had returned to Wiltshire, Draco had lied to his mother when she found the box in his bedroom, claiming the chocolates he had smuggled home were imports from Honeydukes.

"Honeydukes wishes they could make chocolate like that," he'd commented.

She learned he enjoyed Transfiguration as a subject, but always felt defensive around McGonagall, assuming the woman hated him. His performance had suffered because of it, and he had said he regrets even now the marks he received.

He'd read voraciously as a boy, and particularly enjoyed adventure stories about the lives of real wizards and witches in dangerous or exciting fields. His favorite being, those who worked with dragons.

"You know, one of the Weasleys is a dragon tamer," she had commented to the ceiling, playing one fingertip lazily across her clavicle.

"Maybe one day I can meet him. After my brilliant witch finds a way to get me out."

Her heart had clenched with guilt, but also fluttered at his flattering and possessive way of referring to her. Not to mention, how warm her heart felt that he would entertain being polite with the family he had such a deep seated rivalry against.

They'd discussed so many things; she felt like she was meeting him for the first time. Who knew his favorite color would be purple over Slytherin green? Who could have guessed he favoured the muggle demins he had rebelliously asked Tracey Davis to order for him in third year to nearly any Wizarding attire? Hermione certainly hadn't imagined he would share his mother's love of horticulture, or that he spent hours as a lonely boy in a giant manor, pretending to be an explorer in a forgotten civilization, asking the portraits to tell him stories of the lives they had led.

Hermione had mostly answered his revelations with similar personality quirks of her own. She had been a reader, of course, as a girl, but much to Draco's surprise, had preferred horror novels and mysteries.

"You weren't studying muggle science in your spare time? Physics for your nursery stories?" His teasing had been nonthreatening, and she had merely rolled her eyes at him.

She shared her own favorite foods and childhood memories and, finally, her voice had grown sleepy and her sentences ataxic with pauses and delays.

"Go to sleep, Granger," he had whispered "I'll still be here tomorrow."

She'd grinned in spite of herself and answered back, equally quiet, a secret in the dark, "I'm glad."

Now, the noon day sun is high and bright, pouring through the window and chasing the shadows into the corners of her room.

Hermione sits up and stretches her arms over her head, yawning and twist the crick from her back.

"There's a nice sight to wake to in the morning."

She glances over to find Draco, already awake and lounging as per usual, book in hand. He is looking her over, and she realizes she drifted off unclothed and is currently giving him a lovely little show, her breasts pushed out and back arched.

"Good morning," she answers with a grin. "Did you sleep well?" Is that an absurd question, she wonders, if a portrait slept 'well'?

"Like the dead." His answering smile is sincere, but his choice of phrase hits a little too close to home for Hermione. "Are you expected at your shop today?"

"I should," she says with a sigh. Part of her would love to lounge around her room all day and explore this new relationship a little more. Though a larger part of her is ringing alarm bells at the notion. She can imagine a very ugly situation of becoming so caught up in this echo of Draco Malfoy that she stops living life outside. "At the very least, I think I'll drop off some lunch for Severus and Penelope. He'll get too involved and forget to eat, and she'll starve herself before leaving the till unattended."

He snorts. "Ever the Prefect, that one."

"Did you know her?"

"As much as I knew anyone outside my house," he shrugs. "Most of the other houses did their level best to ignore us. Except, of course, when they were flinging insults and pretending to check themselves for dark curses."

"Yes, well, it's not like any of you did much to change our opinions."

Draco levels her with a look that is part annoyed and maybe a hint of bemused. "We were hated the moment we put on the green scarf. Were we supposed to ignore the glares? The judgement? When we were eleven years old? They call that 'victim blaming', Granger."

"Well, no, of course not," she bites back, but then falters. "I mean… it's not right you were looked down on… but then again, you were all so proud of your house… Though, of course, we were all proud, as is natural… ugh, I don't know, Draco. I don't have all the answers."

"Can someone write that down?" He scans the room as if looking for an audience. "Anyone? Someone heard that right? Hermione Granger does not have all the answers."

"You utter prat," she scolds through an honest and bright laugh. "I never claimed to have all the answers." He opens his mouth to reply, and she emphasizes, "Most of them, of course. Ninety nine percent… but certainly not all. That would be arrogant."

She winks at him, and he chuckles.

With a groan, she plants her feet over the side of the bed, grabbing the robe that is strewn over her side table and throwing it over her shoulders. "I guess there's no reason to procrastinate. I won't be late. Would you like to play a game later?"

He perks up visibly at that and asks with a sly smirk, "What kind?"

"The trivia kind," she answers and is rewarded with an adorable pout of his lip. Taking pity she throws over her shoulder as she leaves the room, "To begin with, anyway. You never know…"

She grins all the way through her shower.

XXXXXXXXX

"Good afternoon, Severus." Hermione greets her partner with a sunny smile and nearly sing-songs his name. It's such a glorious day, in her opinion. She wishes her retired professor could find as much happiness as he deserves.

He simply raises an eyebrow at her. "Good afternoon, Miss Granger. You seem… more exuberant than is your usual."

She just laughs at that, waving it off. Coming around his work table, she peers over his shoulder at the cauldron he is stirring. The liquid inside if a perfect turquoise blue.

"Draught of Peace?"

"Indeed."

"Isn't that a bit of a… rolling boil? For this stage of the potion?"

To say the look he gives her is withering would be a gross misuse of the word withering.

"I know, I know," she placates, palms out in defense. "I just always thought you lowered the heat once it hit that level of blue."

See doesn't expect him to answer at all and is fully aware she is stepping on his Potions Master toes, but he surprises her when he barks, "Book. Turn to page eighty seven."

She doesn't know what he means at first and then hears the rustling of parchment. On the other side of Severus, she sees a book settling its pages into place. Glancing over as he continues to stir, he recites from the pages, "If one cannot afford the time required for a constant maintaining of movement within the liquid, one may reduce heat and simmer in the final stages. For best results, maintain a constant boil and stir for the twenty minute duration." A beat, and then he adds, unscripted and haughty as you like, "I always make the time for the best results."

"How do you do that?"

He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Well, some of us managed to be at our place of business before the sun reached high noon, and so had the time to commit to producing the product that is our livelihood-"

"No, no," she interrupts, moving around his back. "That! The book. That's a brilliant bit of spell work. Can I try it?" She doesn't give him time to answer and barks, "Book! Turn to page twenty!" It does, and she bounces in place before ordering, "Book! Turn to page thirty five." Once again, the tome complies.

Hermione turns back to him with bright eyes. "Do you charm all of your books like that?"

"Of course not," he says with no small amount of derision. "That would be an utter waste of time and magic." Hermione disagrees completely, and starts to tell him so, when he explains, "You simply charm the pedestal."

She grins wide. "How wonderful! Is this a spell of your design?" Hermione is aware that her once Professor has a catalog of spells he created himself, not the least of which the offensive gem that scarred Draco so horribly.

But then he also has one for making a person's toenails grow quickly, so really there's no telling what else he could come up with.

"I fear that, for this one, I cannot take credit. This was dear Fillius at his best."

"Professor Flitwick? How oddly practical and not…"

"A ridiculously egregious waste of time?"

She smirks. "I was going to go for 'whimsical', but you know him better than I."

She proceeds to do what she does best and asks a thousand questions about the spell. Hermione learns that it will not only change pages on command, but it is also a research tool.

"You can ask it to find particular information as well. Book," he begins, "find the first mention of Asphodel." The book opens to the recipe for the Draught of Living Death. "Book, find the potion that uses the smallest amount of Asphodel mentioned." It flips once again, pages glowing softly each time, to the Wiggenweld potion.

He looks down at her with a small and rare smile quirking one side of his lips. "Would you care to try, Miss Granger?"

Not at all ashamed of the little squeal she emits, she says in a clear and strong voice, "Book. Show me the fourth recipe listed." The book flips roughly twelve pages in. Ever the cynic, Hermione turns back the pages that are left on the left side of the spine. She flips through three more potions and then finds nothing but introduction and acknowledgements before them.

"This is amazing…" Eyes shining, she looks back and requests, "Will you make me one?"

His laugh always manages to surprise her, even now, having known him so closely for the past few months. This time is no exception. It is a sudden and oddly joyful sound, barked out from his diaphragm. Always brief, but she knows it is sincere. "I would be delighted to know something that you don't," he says with affectionate sarcasm. "You can have it by Monday...After I've finished this blasted order for Mungo's. Are they just bathing in our potions over there…?"

Beaming, Hermione settles in to her work station across the room and begins a batch of Confusing Concoction that George ordered for Wheezes. Sometimes she wonders exactly what nonsense her potions help create at his joke shop, but mostly she just doesn't want to know.

At the end of the work day, of which she only worked about half, she bottles her batch for George, carefully labelling it with the Snape/Granger logo, a clever fusing of 'S' and 'G' she had commissioned by a small muggle marketing company.

"Will you be coming in tomorrow?"

She looks at him as she is slipping her handbag over her arm. With her Concoction finished, she doesn't really have a purpose in making an appearance.

Except, of course, the obvious that she owns the place.

"I certainly can. Do we need to start anything? Or do you need help with the Mungo's order?"

He gives her a hard look. "Offering yesterday before it was nearly finished would have been a more apt gesture."

She giggles at him, completely immune to his ire. "I'll take that as a 'no' then, Severus. I can stop in to relieve Penelope for lunch though."

He waves away the offer. "No need. I will be here much of the day. However, Miss Clearwater has requested this Saturday to herself, and I will be otherwise engaged. That day, the floor is yours, as they say."

"Of course. I'll take care of it. And thank you again… for the pedestal. It's really going to be just perfect for some… personal projects."

"Yes, yes. Monday then. Goodnight, Miss Granger."

The man never could take gratitude very well. She just gives him a final smile and a wave and makes her way home, excited to see her roommate and for the surprise she has in store for him next week.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning, Hermione wakes to find Draco watching her with a grin. "Did you know you snore, Granger?"

Half asleep but entirely indignant, she huffs back at him in a sleep graveled voice, "I most certainly do not."

"It's cute, really," he explains. "Not the type of choking sound you are imagining. Just a delicate little wheezing from the back of your throat. Entirely feminine, of course." That disarming smile is enough to turn her ire into a bemused roll of her eyes. She excuses herself to the en suite to take in her morning ritual, and then tells him she will be running downstairs for a light breakfast.

"I'll be waiting. I thought maybe we could explore your library a bit today." The gleam in his eye tells her he isn't hoping for Hogwarts: A History. By the time she returns, however, his mood has shifted.

"I'm back," she announces to her very unconventional flat mate.

He doesn't look up from the book in his lap but raises one finger as if asking her to wait to speak. She huffs at him, quite put out that, being his only companion, he isn't a bit more pleased to see her.

Hermione busies herself about her room, making probably more noise than is actually necessary in a childish attempt to distract him.

Finally, he looks up and clucks his tongue. "My, you are impatient, my little Gryffindor. Slamming drawers about. Tres uncouth."

"Oh, I apologize, did you say something? I'm sorry, I didn't think we were going to be conversing, and I seem to have tuned you out." She's staring at her vanity mirror, running a brush carefully over her curls, lashes batting with innocence.

"Who knew you could be so petulant? Only child, I suppose…"

"Pot? Kettle." She uses the handle of her brush to point first at Draco in the mirror and then back to herself, and he awards her with a small but honest laugh.

"Are you not the least curious what has captured my attention even in the presence of my beautiful witch?"

Well… she wasn't, terribly, but flattery does seem to have some affect. Hermione isn't always aware of her own weaknesses, but she can freely admit that Draco Malfoy is quickly becoming one.

She pivots on the small cushioned stool and crosses her leg. "Sure. I'll bite."

"Careful. I'm delicate, darling."

A raised brow is all she offers back, and he laughs again before dropping his faux confusion.

"Alright, alright. Since you asked… I was reading about Australia."

Hermione's world pauses for a heartbeat, and then she clears her throat. "Australia?"

"You see, I noticed that you have that travel pamphlet on your side table. And there," he points to the top of the chest of drawers, rather close to his frame, "I see documentation from the Ministry giving you five year access to portkey travel there."

She shifts, uncomfortable, awaiting the questions she doesn't even want to think about, less likely answer. But he goes on, grinning suddenly. "So I put the pieces together and imagine you frequently vacation there. So then," he waves the book from his lap in the air, "I realized I have a travel book here with detailed information on all the major Wizarding communities and their corresponding muggle culture. Restaurants, shopping districts, potions resources. Did you know Australia is the only source for the Caladenia pallida, which is used to subdue doxies without extermination? Or that muggles claim," his voices lowers to offer an aside, "your friend Lovegood would be really into this… that they have animals with pockets? Ludicrous, I know!"

Hermione's heart is catching up with her head, and she tries to force a natural smile. She's not ready. Not ready to face the reality of her parents who have forgotten her. Not ready to admit that she orphaned herself with a desperate folly. And it appears… she won't need to. He's looking at her, eager as a puppy, obviously pleased with himself.

She shakes off everything else and counters, "They do have animals with pockets. Kangaroos, for instance, and the females have a pouch that houses their young until they can be on their own."

He scoffs, but with a grin. "You'll have to prove it to me, Granger."

And so they spend the afternoon planning a trip to Australia they will never take. Hermione has already been, just after the war. She went and found her parents, and the wizarding experts in Perth told her the risk was far too great to restore their memories. Frank and Jean Granger are happy and healthy and she will just have to live with the consequences of her own sacrifice, letting them believe themselves to be the Wilkins, an aging couple with no children but very much in love.

Draco says he will take her to a Japanese style restaurant in Brisbane, a rare potions shop off the beaten path in Newcastle, swimming in the oceans and exploring the outback and doing anything else, he says, that her heart desires. Right then, her heart very much desires her roommate to come alive from the proverbial page. They talk for hours and she forgets about lunch, Severus and her shop, and everything else outside her Silenced door.

That night, she emerges from her room long enough to take dinner with Harry. She is somewhat distracted through their usual small talk, thinking of Draco and how the memory of man had so keenly observed details in her life. He had reached a logical, though incorrect, conclusion of how to spend time with her. She doesn't actually desire a trip to Australia, knowing it would only end in heartbreak when she is incapable of not checking in on her parents, but it's the thought, the incredibly sweet thought, that counts.

When Harry offers, just as they are finishing the washing up together, to put on a film, she declines and says she thinks she might like to read for a bit before bed.

She does, but it ends up being excerpts from Anais Nin and her contemporaries, rather than the educational or philosophical tomes Harry had likely assumed. Draco had been very happy, almost gratefully so, to see her return so quickly, and she had rewarded him for this, as well as his very thoughtful gesture earlier in the day, by not wasting time before returning to their private little games.

"He made love to her mouth," Hermione reads slowly. "He made her say that she wanted him. Then he would ask: "And how do you want me? What parts of you want me tonight?"

Sometimes she answered, "My mouth wants you, I want to feel you in my mouth, way deep down in my mouth." Other times she answered, "I am moist between my legs.""

Hermione, feeling bold, mimes as she read, playing one forefinger along her tongue, suckling it briefly between her lips, as she professes the protagonist's desire to use her mouth. That same digit draws a line up the center of her lavender knickers, the color chosen just for him, as she finishes the passage, her feet up on the bed and her knees propped open, and her partner groans at the sight.

Draco breathes in deep at her words, murmuring on the exhale, "And you, Hermione? What part of me will you let me have? Can I take your pretty pink mouth?"

She places the book aside and focuses her attention fully on the portrait, watching Draco's hand press at his trousers, palm tracing firmly over his length. "What would you take, if I let you choose?" She is taunting him. Suggesting. "What parts of me would you want?"

"Fuck... I want everything. Your mouth though..." He groans, closing his eyes as if imagining it. "I could start with your mouth. Hold your head in place and thrust slow."

"Show me." Hermione takes in two fingers between her lips, wetting them, then slides the satin of her knickers aside to run them just inside, just between her folds. "Let me watch you pretend to have me."

He's entranced by her for a moment, then she watches him slip his belt carefully though its loop and unbutton his trousers, eyeing her as he puts on a deliberate show. Once his trousers are lowered and then removed, Draco settles onto the sofa, but knelt on his knees. Fisting himself, he sets a slow pace, watching as she matches the rhythm. "Is that how…" she tries, and has to catch her breath in the midst of her thought. "Is that how you want me?" She slides two fingers back into her mouth and moves as he moves, imagining she can taste him.

"Holy fuck… yes, just like that. Take it just like that…"

Words fail them both after that, their intentions shifting from seductive foreplay to their mutual selfish ends. Hermione, her back propped on pillows behind her, lifts her bum and pulls her knickers down her legs, completely exposing her sex. She returns her attentions to herself, but focuses on her clit and building herself toward completion, noticing Draco's pace increasing with her own.

He's fucking glorious, she thinks, alabaster skin stretched over the lines of muscle, the cords of his neck strained. She watches his hand where he grips himself, firm but forgiving, and envisions taking him in her mouth just as he said he wanted. "Fuck, Granger. So fucking beautiful… Are you close?"

She nods before she can make sound, finally managing a, "Yes. Dear Gods, Draco…," his name swallowed into a whimper.

"Come for me then," he barely gets out, growling out a desperate command, as his body lurches and his free hand grips the sofa's high back.

She's right there with him, feeling the shudders wash over her. At the height of her tremors, he locks with her gaze, and she does her level best to keep from closing her eyes, wanting to watch every jolt and shiver that shakes his body, her mouth locked in the silent scream of her release.

She sleeps too late the following morning and is ten minutes late opening her shop for the first time in its brief history. Hermione hates being late, but her body feels flushed and boneless, and she's pretty sure it's worth it.

Hermione is distracted throughout the day. Saturdays are usually a high traffic shift, but this one seems to only be broken up by the occasional client. By lunch, she is restless, calling in an order to the café next door to break up the monotony. The café doesn't have a delivery service per se, but they have always made exceptions for the potions proprietors. In exchange, Severus has often gifted them edible ingredients when he finds himself with a surplus in danger of reaching its optimum shelf life.

The order for St. Mungo's is finished, the cauldrons clean. Only a batch of Pepper Up is simmering in the back and requires virtually no attention. Inventory has been done for the week, vendors contacted to place supply orders, special order customers have been contacted…

They really should give Penelope a raise. She's very thorough.

By two, Hermione mind has drifted more than once to her evening previous, her body tingling with the memory.

It's strange, this relationship, if that is even a proper word. In so far as that a relationship is the type of contact and context between two people, she supposes it's as good a word as any. A part of her feels twisted up and uncomfortable if she thinks too hard on her situation. What would her friends think? But more than that, what would a completely analytical and impartial Hermione Granger think?

But then, she also thinks to tell Hermione Granger that she can just shove her judgments. What does it hurt anyone? Not to mention, on what, precisely, is she missing out by spending time in her room? A shag with McLaggen between boring and failed relationships? Please. Her time is just as well spent bringing herself off in the privacy of her home as it was using Cormac to the same ends. She's just avoiding the bar tab that tended to proceed their meetings.

Not to mention, Hermione has learned a few things about spontaneity the last couple of years; about living life in the moment. Jean Granger certainly thought her plans to take Hermione to Harrods over the holidays would come to fruition. Frank Granger surely didn't think their last trip to that little curry place he likes would be the last they would take before he forgot his entire life.

Colin Creevey assuredly didn't believe the last photo he took, of Ginny Weasley astride a broom, practicing for a game she'd never play, would be the final time he would hit the shutter.

Hermione has learned a lot about enjoying the good things in life. Every moment doesn't have to be leading to some inevitable conclusion. If this likeness of Draco Malfoy would like to continue exploring one another through their eyes and their words, she has every intention of gifting a dead man what little joy she can and enjoying the experience right along with him.

At four, the shop is technically closed, Saturdays having shorter hours. Normally, when she is the last to leave, unless she is in the middle of a delicate brew, Hermione closes the door promptly at 4:01 and makes her way home. However, she is feeling a modicum of guilt over the hours Penelope has put into their shop (combined with a little discomfort that she likewise leaves messes all about Grimmauld that Harry cleans) and decides to put in a little effort to the upkeep.

She is in the back reorganizing the dried ingredients, Pepper Up simmering quietly, when she hears the front door open and what sounds very much like a giggle.

A very Penelope Clearwater giggle.

Stepping softly across the room, she spies through the crack in the door where she left it ajar, and finds her fastidious and respectful only employee perched on the counter, her legs wrapped around a man's waist, and her hands buried in his hair. The man is bent over, nuzzling her neck, his cloak high around his neck and obscuring the majority of his features.

Hermione does not much care for confrontation, but this is just entirely unprofessional. What would Severus think if she let this continue? She slides the door open and steps through, clearing her throat. "Miss Clearwater-"

Both members of the guilty party jerk upright, Penelope locking eyes with Hermione, and the wizard standing to his full impressive height, his slick black hair falling from between Penelope's frozen fingers.

Black hair.

Hermione blinks. "Severus?"

In the time that she has known the man, she has seen Severus Snape sneer, smirk, half-smile, and even, on rare occasion, grin around a laugh. This look he gives her, however, all the self-satisfied challenge of a cat with a canary, is entirely new.

"Miss Granger. I apologize if we disturbed you mid-potion. We didn't expect you would remain late."

"I… no. You didn't. I was just cleaning up… what the fuck, Severus!?" The bastard has the nerve to chuckle at her shock.

Penelope is still looking at her like Hermione might eat her. Or fire her, perhaps. Honestly, through her surprise, Hermione is fighting a smile of her own. If anyone on this earth deserves a little happiness, some uncomplicated affection, it's her long suffering partner.

She's just also trying very hard not to be completely covetous of his very real romance in comparison to her own lonely affair.

Before either of them can answer, Hermione waves her hand around and says, "Nevermind. Really, it's not my business. Just… " She looks exasperated a moment and then finishes with a bemused sigh, "Maybe not on the counter. Penelope just cleaned that yesterday."

Snape chuckles yet again, and says, "Miss Granger, you have no idea how many times that counter has been cleaned this week."

"Merlin's pointy hat," she mutters. "I'll see you Monday."

She breezes past them and doesn't look back when she hears the giggles begin again.

In her room, she reaffirms that life is too brief to concern herself with what she should be doing or what would be proper to want. She instead settles herself into another very long, glorious night, seduced by the velvet voice of her unconventional new lover.


	11. Chapter 11

It is only mildly awkward to walk into the shop on Monday and look Penelope Clearwater in the eye.

"Good morning, Hermione," the young woman greets her, steadfastly paying very close attention to counting out the galleons and knuts in the till.

Hermione, for her part, does her level best to be pleasant and natural, and she mostly succeeds. Though, she certainly doesn't linger, making her way quickly to the potions lab after a brief greeting.

"Excellent timing," her partner drawls at her. "I've just finished preparation on your pedestal."

She had nearly forgotten it, the charmed pedestal she plans to give her phantom lover. After spending Saturday night and almost the entirety of Sunday with him, leaving only briefly to begin the brewing of a new order, she awoke this sunny Monday morning remembering the gift. She had dressed quickly and made her way out the door. When she left, Draco was still racked out in his frame, his shirt and trousers a crumpled heap on the floor and his body stretched out like a cat on the sofa, his modesty barely kept intact by a small fringed throw. It struck her he was the very picture of temptation, absolutely literally speaking.

"Oh, thank you!"

Without a word, Severus levitates it across the room until it is just in front of her. She studies it closely, looking over the basic structure and noticing it has an easy retracting charm. This will allow it to stand tall from the floor as easily as the more traditional use of merely propping up a tome on a desk. It will be perfect! She can place it just in front of the portrait and then Draco will be able to read countless books for the time he stays with her.

The idea of moving him out of her room after the renovations are complete is all but forgotten. As soon she had declined the offer to move the tapestry to make room for the portrait, Harry stopped mentioning moving Draco. She hopes he has forgotten about it entirely.

Though, to be fair, she's also barely seen Harry in the past week or more.

"Miss Granger."

Looking up, she'd finds Severus eyeing her. "Perhaps you have questions? Regarding this past Saturday night?"

That manages to bring down her carefree mood, replacing it with that slightly icky feeling of knowing more than you want about your mentor's sex life. Hermione wrinkles her nose at him. "No, I think I'm pretty solid on the particulars, thanks very much."

"I do not want you to believe I have taken advantage of our Miss Clearwater in any way."

"Honestly, that hadn't crossed my mind. Though, in hindsight, I suppose it should have, you being her employer."

"As was my concern initially as well. I have made a magical vow with her that anything transpiring between us will have no bearing on her treatment or compensation in a professional manner."

"Well, if Saturday was any indication, I'd say she only hurt herself requiring that vow. You looked like she might be earning a raise," she quips at him.

He leers in reply, seeming to agree, then clarifies, "I insisted on the vow. It seemed only proper."

Hermione is curious, and so she asks, "How long have you been…whatever this is that you are?"

He considers, tilting his head slightly to the side. "A matter of weeks."

She nods, knowing details are often hard fought from her old professor. ""Did you… was there anything, you know, before? At Hogwarts?"

"Dear Gods, girl, of course not. I have been many things in my life, but I would not have been so predatory as you seem to imagine."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend. It just… appeared sudden to me. I wondered if you had history."

"None beyond the one I share with you, Miss Granger, and yet, somehow, I let you worm your way into my daily life with little complaint."

She grins, sort of warm at the notion that he holds her in some regard of affection on level with the witch he is seeing. Not the same sort of affection, of course, but Hermione's relationships are few and far between. This fatherly… brotherly… friendship? Hermione may not have her family anymore, but she has Harry. She has Severus. It seems she's slowly building a new one from the wreckage of war.

"I'm glad, Severus, to see you happy. You are, I assume?" He snorts, of course, never one to discuss his own feelings or desires, but she can see it suddenly. An ever-present crinkle in the corners of his eyes, a loosening of his shoulders these past weeks. He's happy.

She holds up the pedestal in reference. "Thank you, again, for this. It's really going to come in quite handy." She privately thinks he can't imagine just how handy it's going to be.

He grunts out a response, obviously uncomfortable, and Hermione takes that as her cue to leave.

She's halfway to the door when he says conversationally, "Of course, you will need to charm the books you plan to use. Tune them to the pedestal."

"You could have mentioned," she pouts, stomping back and crossing her arms in front of her, awaiting yet another lesson in a lifetime history of them from Professor Snape.

He is as impatient and curt as ever when he is giving instruction, but, after a brief demonstration and only two failed attempts, Hermione has the charm memorized and thanks him yet again. She dares a soft touch to his arm, squeezing her fingers around his forearm affectionately. He grizzles under his breath, and it just makes her smile.

Passing back through the front of the shop, she pauses just past Penelope. "You really are excellent at taking care of everything here. I don't know how we would do this without you. So many delicate and temperamental ingredients."

"I… thank you. I appreciate that," she answers humbly, seeming sincerely touched.

"It's how I know you'll take care of him." Hermione hooks her thumb back the way she came. "There's nothing on earth more delicate or temperamental than Severus Snape." She grins, a tilt of the corner of her mouth, and Penelope answers with her own. Definitely something on which they can agree.

*************************XXXXXXXXXXXXXX*******************

"I have something for you," Hermione says, giddy with the elation she feels when she has a really good gift to present.

"Wooing me with worldly goods, Hermione? How old-fashioned of you." He grins at her as she bounces on her heels.

Moving close to the portrait, she has the small podium levitating behind her. Hermione places it directly in the center of the large frame, a mere foot from the smooth canvas, and lays a book atop it. With a quick flick of her wand, she activates the tome with the charm Severus taught her and looks at Draco expectantly.

"What is it?" He asks, curious but reserved as usual.

"Instruct it to open to the first page of the first chapter," she prompts, still bouncing in place.

He clears his throat dramatically and recites, "Book, open yourself to the first page of chapter one."

There is a soft gold glow around the pages and the book falls open slowly. The first few pages of forwards and acknowledgements flap to rest against the open cover, as if a light breeze had caught them in its wake. Everything goes still, the glow fading, and Draco is staring wide-eyed at the first page of chapter one of a muggle book Hermione just received last week in the post.

Without instruction, he says, "Book, turn to the next page."

With slightly less fanfare, what with there being less pages to move about, the soft glow rises and falls as the page turns. Draco looks at her for the first time since this began, and a wide smile splits his face. "You beautiful, brilliant witch."

She blushes in turn and lifts one shoulder, shrugging off the compliment and trying not to be too heartbroken it came from a dead man she might or might not be completely enamoured with.

Draco looks back down and instructs the book to turn, again and again, testing how the commands work. "Turn the page," or "Go to chapter four," or "Open the first page featuring the word 'between'."

"That was random," she muses.

Shrugging, he continues to study the book. "First word that came to mind."

"Do you like it?" she finally inquires, biting her lower lip.

"Are you completely spare? Of course I do!" They laugh together, and Hermione sits on the edge of her bed, watching him play with his new toy. "I'll never run out of reading material now. I mean, especially sharing a room with you," he quips at her, eyes pointedly drifting to her over-stuffed bookshelf.

Hermione braces, hoping he doesn't make a comment about 'after' or 'when he's free'. Thankfully, that never comes, and she can enjoy the here and now for another day, watching him with a touch of longing in her expression and continuing to ignore the depressing reality of her love life.

When the clock in the parlour strikes half nine, Hermione decides she should probably eat something. She leaves Draco with a new book on the pedestal to keep him occupied, and makes her way to the kitchen to rustle up something easy for herself. She's quite surprised to find Harry already occupying the room.

"Oh! Harry, you surprised me. I thought maybe you'd be out. Or already retired for the night."

He frowns at her a little. "It's Monday."

"Right," she drags out a little, questioning the importance, then it strikes her. "Right! Monday! Oh, Harry I'm so sorry. I minded the shop Saturday and started a new batch yesterday afternoon, and I suppose my days are just a little turned around."

"You don't have to apologize. I can watch a film by myself once in a while. But, Hermione… are you quite alright?"

She blinks, sincere confusion making for a comedic expression. "Alright? Yes, I'm great, Harry."

"It's just… I don't see you much these days."

Hermione scoffs at him, reaching into a cabinet for a loaf of bread. "You're one to talk. Out most nights, up at strange hours. I think you have a secret girlfriend, frankly, and I'm absolutely offended you haven't told me." She flashes a grin that makes it obvious she is not in the least bit cross with him.

His brow furrows, frown deepening. "Are you seeing someone then?"

"What? No. Why in the world would you think that?"

"Well," he says, reaching around where she is pilfering in a drawer to hand her a butter knife she seems not to be able to find. "You just described your own atrocious sleep habits and accused me of hiding some mysterious lover. So, is that your secret then?"

So much for 'Harry never judges. Harry never asked questions'. "No, Harry, I'm not seeing anyone."

"Not even McLaggen?"

"Oh, sweet Merlin, no. I haven't seen him since Draco… that is, you know, the portrait of Malfoy…since it was moved in. And good riddance. That was a mistake I didn't need to make again. I can't believe you didn't have more to say on the matter, honestly." She plows through her flub and hopes Harry didn't notice, trying to cover her tracks by making a much larger issue of McLaggen than she really believed him to be. It seems to be working, Harry nodding and following along as Hermione spreads a bit of peanut butter on a slice of bread.

Unfortunately, when she stops talking, Harry comments, "Since, Draco, eh? How is that, by the way? You've not complained about his sexual innuendos or judgmental observations in a couple of weeks."

Taking a bite of her hastily made sandwich, and wishing very much to be back in her room, she shrugs and says, "He's been quite well behaved. Not one nasty comment about my muggle gadgets or frumpy clothing in days."

"Hm." Harry is quiet after that, busying himself with cleaning the crumbs from the counter where Hermione made her snack. "It just seems that you've been spending a lot of time in your room. I wondered if you were… if you're happy."

She stops chewing and cocks her head at him, noticing what looks like honest worry on his face. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just… Hermione, have you seen Ron lately?"

"Not since the last time I was at the Burrow, no. Why, is he alright?" she asks, suddenly a little concerned.

"He's fine. Excellent, really. He's… he got engaged. To Susan Bones. I just wondered if that's why…You didn't know?"

She's staring at him, dumbstruck. Ron Weasley is engaged?

"Ron is… He was seeing Susan?" Hermione is struck by how out of the proverbial loop she must be. Then she realizies, "Wait, so you what, exactly? Thought I was depressed and pining away in my room?" Considering what she has been doing, that's just fucking hilarious if you ask Hermione. She barks a laugh. "Oh, Harry, no. That's… I'm really happy for him. Truly. A little put out he didn't think to tell me, if I'm honest, but that's just typical inconsiderate Ron." She is grinning through the mild complaint. It is typical and exactly why they are no longer dating, but she couldn't be happier for him.

"Well, he doesn't always thinks about the big picture. Or the details. The man doesn't really think much, Hermione," he finishes with a laugh. "But I know he wanted to tell you. Probably be put out I did it, actually. I was… I was getting worried and didn't know what else it might be."

He turns serious suddenly, putting down the rag he'd been using to buff the counter. "Look, I know I'm busy a lot, but I do notice things. You're a bit of a homebody, sure, though I never would have called you reclusive. Did you even have lunch today?"

His concern is striking. She hasn't realized how removed she has been the last few days or how it might look to an outside perspective. She answers back earnestly, hoping to put him at ease, "Harry, I'm fine. Honestly. I ate on my way back from the shop. I'm happy for Ron, the shop is doing well, everything is great."

He holds up his hands, placating, showing his surrender to belief. "I just worry about you. You took care of me for a long time. It's my turn to look out for you."

Something makes Hermione think he very much means that he is her family, now that she doesn't have one. If he was anyone else, she might bristle at the implication she needs someone to mind her, but from Harry, it's a very welcome thought.

"Thank you, Harry." Stepping forward, she slides her arms around his waist and he wraps his around her shoulders.

"Anything you need, Hermione." She just nods into his shoulder.

Later, when she climbs the stairs back to her room, she contemplates the conversation she just had.

Ron. Getting married.

She never thought she'd see the day. Or rather, she had, once. She just imagined it would be to her. She's surprised he took the plunge so quickly, not having stuck with one witch for more than a week or so since their break up. Hermione supposes those who shag McLaggens shouldn't throw stones, but she at least tried to be discreet in her casual affairs.

And Harry thinks she's depressed. Hermione isn't sure he would be much happier to know what she is doing in her room late into the night. Or that he'd think it is particularly healthy.

She's distracted when she enters, and doesn't immediately greet Draco.

"Everything shiny, Granger?"

"What? Oh. Oh, yes, everything's fine."

He's studying her, frowning slightly. "You seem a modicum less than fine, I must say. Did Scarhead upset you?"

"I really wish you'd not call him that. To say the name is 'juvenile' is an insult to children everywhere."

"Fine," he concedes with a smirk and a little shake of his head. "What did Potter the Prick say to upset my beautiful witch?"

She laughs even as she admonishes him. "Draco! There is no reason to be such an utter arse. And Harry is lovely. He's just… worried about me." She winces, hoping he doesn't ask-

"Why?"

-why.

"He was afraid I might be spending so much time in my room because I'm unhappy."

Draco scoffs. "So you set him straight, I imagine. I mean, I don't expect you told him you spend your evenings letting me watch you touch your pretty kitty for me, but trying to find a way to get me out should be an easy enough excuse."

He pauses, thoughtful, and then comments, "Speaking of, I might need to let you out of my sight on occasion if I ever want to touch that pretty kitty for myself. You're just so tempting, I've not minded being stuck a bit longer these last few days."

He's giving her that knicker-melting smile of his, but Hermione just feels her heart beating fast and her vision tunnel in panic. She's been so wrapped up with their little games, she had started to let herself think maybe he had given up his ludicrous assertions that he's still alive.

"Yes…" she says, clearing her throat and starting again. "I need to go to the shop tomorrow and check on what I started yesterday. Maybe I can follow up on some information while I'm out." What information she is fabricating, she has no idea. As far as she's concerned, even her research on his odd portrait status has reached dead ends.

"Well," Draco sighs, "if you must. But I'll miss you, love. Be sure to leave me a new book to read."

Hermione tries to smile, but there is a strain, strangling her heart, that comes through on her face. She's tired, she tells him, and it is true enough. But she doesn't sleep much that night. She hasn't slept much in days, but usually for more pleasurable reasons. Tonight, it's just that old guilt rising to the surface once again. She needs to start thinking more creatively tomorrow, much as it pains her to think she will lose him in the bargain.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BAM!...

The tiny bell above the door jingles as Hermione makes her way into her shop. Penelope greets her with a nod, but doesn't speak as she is working with a customer. They really were lucky to find her, Hermione knows. She's excellent with the public, something Severus definitely lacks, and Hermione finds she is limited at best.

(Of course, Hermione could not have foreseen just how lucky Severus would end up with the arrangement.)

The questions some customers ask is enough to make her pull her hair out.

"Wait, you mean I have to use fire to heat the cauldron?"

She shakes her head as she walks by, ticking off all the ways that warming charms have been debunked in proper potion making for centuries, but doesn't say a word.

She finds Severus on a wooden stool in the backroom, stirring a potion with the utmost care.

"Is that insipid witch with the abysmal potion skills still bothering Miss Clearwater?"

Hermione chuckles and tells him that, indeed, she is. He grimaces in return but doesn't pause in his robotic stirs.

"Is that the Calming Draught for St. Mungo's?" That particular contract is their most lucrative. They have been the exclusive source for all medical draughts for the wizarding hospital for the past few months. Though they've discussed outsourcing some of the legwork, at this point Severus is brewing them all personally.

"It is."

A man of many words, her partner.

He finally chances a look up at her and emotes with a flick of his eyebrow toward his hairline. Quite expressive for the wizard.

"If I might observe, you should take better care of yourself. Have you been sleeping, Miss Granger?"

"Not well," she grumbles. It's true that ever since her rather intimate relationship with Draco's portrait began, she has not been resting as she should. Between their nightly activities and, more recently, a return to portrait curse lore, sleep has taken a definite back seat. "I've been working on a side project. Nothing for the shop," she throws in quickly, lest he think she's moonlighting on him, "just a personal issue."

"Nothing serious, I hope."

There was a time Hermione would not have been able to read anything but a dismissive lack of interest in his tone, but she has since learned his subtle cues. He is genuinely concerned, and it has the immediate effect of wanting to put him at ease.

"No, no… I seem to have acquired a portrait."

And suddenly the heavens open up, and Hermione jumps back off the stool her bum barely hit.

"I didn't even think to ask you!… Severus, do you know why a member of the Malfoy family might have been cursed posthumously?"

These past weeks, Hermione hadn't necessarily thought to consult her partner. He is not an expert on the magic itself, charms not having been his specialty, so she had dismissed his council out of hand in favour of other sources.

Now, however, she feels remiss and a bit foolish not having considered talking to him regarding the subject in a more personal and specific way. Not the curse itself, necessarily, but the _why_. The _who_. Surely a former Death Eater might have an idea as to who would have enacted such a curse. She feels very put-out with herself, indeed.

"I can think of many reasons why any one of them might have been cursed, but I suspect you are asking a vague question when more specific information is available."

She sighs and flops back down where she had been. "I do. I mean, there is. It's Draco. Harry acquired his portrait last month, but it seems like it might be cursed. I've been researching, hoping to help him. It. Whatever."

He raises a brow again, and she just knows he's judging her for her very base word choices. "I'm tired, alright," she says, in her defense. "Anyway, I haven't found anything, but I feel terrible. He's not like he should be… Not a normal portrait. I was thinking perhaps it's cursed? Or a faulty charm?"

"Portrait…?" Severus seems to catch up with the conversation. He lays his ladle aside, lowering the heat on the cauldron and affording her his full attention. "Draco Malfoy has a portrait?" He looks very uncertain, and it unnerves her a little.

"Apparently. And for now it's hanging in my room. Unfortunately for me, and for Malfoy, he doesn't seem to be aware that he is a portrait."

"That seems highly irregular. Even Lucius had not yet had his portrait commissioned. It is tradition for a Malfoy patriarch to be immortalized on their fiftieth birthday, when they have both virility and wisdom."

She can't help a little sound of derision but quickly apologizes. "Sorry. I shouldn't think ill of the dead. Regardless, he must have had one because I have it. Maybe his family knew how dangerous it would be near the final battle and decided to go forward with it?"

"Perhaps… Would it be too much imposition if I asked to view the portrait? I find I have an unhealthy curiosity over the situation."

"Of course not. Tonight if you like. I'll just be headed home as soon as I balance the ledger for the end of month. Honestly, I'd appreciate someone else to consult with. So far my efforts have met dead ends."

Severus agrees and the plan is made. Hermione is incredibly relieved to have another intelligent mind to consult over the situation. She would very much like to stop living with the guilt of lying to Draco's image. She does feel a little guilty involving her partner on what is likely a sensitive subject for him, given his relationship with the deceased.

And then, of course, there is also a conflicted part of her that is a little sad that this odd… relationship?

No. That's not right. Too formal. Too real…

That this odd series of interactions might come to an end. Probably healthier for her, she thinks. Growing attached is already a reality she doesn't want to admit she's facing. The sooner he can turn into one of those vague, frustrating, unhelpful portraits, the sooner she can move on with her life. It should make her feel more relieved than it does, but instead just leaving her anxious and a little sad.

She finishes at her shop and makes her way home before Snape, saying she will see him at Grimmauld. Taking her time, Hermione manages to talk to Harry long enough that her partner arrives before she can make her way to her room.

"Potter."

Harry, never one to be thwarted by Severus' severe demeanor, gives him a broad, boyish grin and greets, "Hullo, Severus. Taking good care of our Hermione over at the shop?"

"Indeed."

Their interactions rarely go beyond this point: Severus giving one-word answers, and Harry delighting in his discomfort.

"I'm just going to show him the portrait. Maybe he can help me figure out what's wrong with it. Or, at least, who might have wanted to do this to Malfoy."

Harry waves them away and goes about polishing his Quidditch leathers, a task he schedules in twice weekly as if it were a religious practice.

Hermione leads Severus up the narrow steps and to her bedroom door. "I just want to warn you, he looks incredibly real. I know… you were close to the family…." Hermione imagines it would be hard for her to see the portrait of someone she had recently lost, and feels bad for speaking so clinically of the situation. Does it bring closure to speak with the image of a loved one? Or just reopen the wound? It's a reality that, as a muggleborn, she's never really had to ponder. In the muggle world, you die, there's a funeral, everyone moves on. Portraits, while a curiosity, she has always considered to be quite eerie. Depressing to a point of grotesque.

"I assure you, I am prepared."

Severus waits patiently while she opens the door and steps through, and Draco greets her with a grin. "You're late, lioness. Caught up with my greasy godfather, were you?"

Her face goes scarlet just as Snape enters behind her and narrows his eyes at the image. Draco also freezes in place and stares, wide-eyed, at the wizard in question.

The moment could only be better punctuated by a cricket singing, the three staring each other down, a trifecta stand-off.

Finally, Snape steps one more pace forward and leans toward the portrait, studying it intently.

"That," he says decisively, "Is not a portrait."

Hermione feels the world tilt.

XxxxxxxxxX

Draco grins broadly at his godfather, pleased it took no time for him to accept the truth of his situation, where Hermione had to be convinced. So he scoffs but with no malice. "That's what I've been saying. Didn't take you half as much convincing as it did with Granger." He glances over to find his witch in question looking all out of sorts. He's not sure why that would be… Perhaps embarrassment that she had to bring in Snape to consult on his issue. His adorable little swot: She probably feels bad she couldn't do it on her own. He's always known her to have a stubborn streak. It makes him appreciate it all the more she has admitted she needs help.

He watches Severus exchange a glance with Hermione and then he looks back at him. "Do you know where you are, Mister Malfoy? Within the confines of that room, to clarify, lest you decide 'Grimmauld Place' to be a witty answer."

Draco smirks a little at the comment then sweeps his gaze around him, eyeing the room as if to find something more than he has memorized over the past many months. "I'm afraid not. But wherever I am, there's no leaving here on my own. There's no door. No windows."

"No, I suppose there wouldn't be," he mutters. "You are likely on one of your family's properties. France perhaps. Specifically, I would wager you are within an enchanted oubliette. A 'panic room', muggles often refer to these places," he says distractedly over his shoulder, presumably to assist Granger in understanding. "Before the rise of the Ministry and it's sanitizing of old magics, they were built into the foundations of ancestral homes," he explains. "The Malfoys are infamous for keeping the old rituals, and I find it likely Armand included it within the French estate. Tell me, Draco, what do you see when you look at us? What is your view?"

"You're both framed in what seems like it should be a mirror, except it doesn't reflect. It's large, almost half the wall and nearly floor to ceiling. Garish gilded frame," he adds with distaste. Truthfully, the décor is abysmal. "Beyond that, there is really not much on that side of the room that you probably can't see: An ugly painting on the left and an annoyingly uncomfortable chair in the corner. And a fern."

"I suppose you can't hear anything out of the room either? From the walls or ceiling."

Draco shakes his head in the negative. He had tried screaming for help the first few months, but the storage facility, which held what apparently seems to be a portrait to everyone else, had cast a silencing charm on him. He had learned to be more conservative with the ruckus he created. Not that it had done him any good in the first place. No sound ever came from the outside.

"Not surprising. I imagine you are completely sound proofed. For your 'protection'. Thus is the nature of these designs."

Draco is pleased to finally have some answers, really he is, but his patience after so much time is also dangerously thin. Taking a calming breath and trying to keep his voice level, he says, "I appreciate the information, and I can't tell you how happy I am to know where I am… but how the fuck do I get out of here?"

Alright, so keeping his voice level was mostly a success.

"What do you remember? Of the battle?"

Draco frowns at his godfather. The truth is, he remembers very little. He had been with his parents… He remembers something his father said about a different path…?

"Not much. I was with Mother and Father and then… I don't know, it's unclear. Like I've been confounded."

Snape hums in thought, studying the room Draco is in and occasionally sweeping his gaze back to his former student. After some consideration, he says abruptly, "I will secure a portkey to France from the Ministry. I'm sure someone at that infernal place owes me a favor from the war," he adds with a mutter. "In the meantime, I think it best we not mention this situation to anyone, Miss Granger. This type of magic is likely quite illegal. Draco will have enough issues with the Wizengamot once he is resurrected."

Draco watches her agree with a slow and stiff nod, still staring wide-eyed at him. He's not entirely sure what is going on in her bushy-head of curls, but it's starting to make him nervous. As soon as his godfather has vacated the room, his signature flourish of robes following him, he poses, "Knut for your thoughts, Granger. You'd think you'd be happier you were able to convince him to help."

"I didn't…" She breathes out, but he doesn't quite understand what she means. She goes on, "I didn't convince him. I didn't even believe you…"

"You were, indeed, very slow on the uptake. Glad you finally came around though."

"No! I didn't 'come around'! I never believed you. You're real," she says, a haunted expression on her paling face. "You're the real Draco."

"You didn't…?" Draco feels as though he's been struck. She didn't believe he was real? That he was Draco? "What the fuck, Granger? What the hell was-" He gestures wildly between them, not sure how to put it in to words. What was the intimacy they had shared? The conversations and laughing, the apologies and forgiveness…. The relationship. What the fuck had all that meant if she thought he was nothing but a painting? His mind is spinning with the sickening realization, his heart catching up slowly with his thoughts.

"I can't fucking believe you." He shakes his head, disgusted, and she continues to stare at him like a sideshow. Like a thing.

Draco turns on his heel and plods into the only privacy his purgatory affords, slamming the door behind him and leaning against the cool wood, breathing hard. He takes stock of the small en suite before flopping down on the chair in front of the vanity.

He is mortified, to put it lightly. Not to mention angry and more than a little hurt. She never believed him? What an ugly reality he finds himself in. He supposes all those plans they made. Those times he mentioned things they might do once he was free… she was just humoring him. Indulging his little fantasies so she could enjoy hers...

Draco feels nauseous. Devalued and used. In this moment he never wants to see her again.

Except he knows that isn't true. He also wants to emerge from the room and rail at her. Tell her all the ways she's a fucking monster for letting him believe they had anything between them other than relief from her boredom.

And more than that… he still wants to find his way to her, to be with her, and knowing that makes him feel the lowest of all.

He tries to take solace in the only bright spot of that devastating conversation. At this very moment, his godfather is probably tearing through the Ministry and won't rest until he can find a way to get to him. He'll be free. Free of this cage and this curse and able to live the rest of his life. Unfortunately, the only person he wanted to share that with, the only person left in his life that he cares about, just shattered his heart, and he's not sure how to put it back together.

He stays for a while, not sure if he hopes she has left or not. When he wanders back into his room, she is no longer in the mirror, and Draco finds sorrow and relief at war once again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hermione stares after Draco and where he disappeared from her field of vision in the portrait-

Not a portrait. Not really. A window. A mirror.

She calls to him but he doesn't answer. She's not even sure he can hear her. After a short time, her body feeling numb, her brain at a loss, she gives up and leaves the room finding Harry in the dining room.

"Snape left in a hurry," he observes, eyeing her curiously.

"Harry… I don't even know where to begin." It occurs to her she probably should have told Harry immediately that his home now seems to have an unintentional house guest. "Harry, he's real. Draco… That's the real Draco. He's… he's alive." She chokes on the word, emotions that have been arrested finally inflating, filling her entire body and crushing her under the weight.

He's alive. He's real. He's real and he…

He's devastated.

"Oh, Merlin, Harry, he's really Draco, and I didn't believe him. He must hate me…"

"Wait, wait…" He rises from his chair, setting down his glass next to a half-eaten sandwich. "That portrait… that's really Malfoy? That's… we have to get him out! Where's Severus headed? How can I help?" Ever the inner hero, Hermione does so love her courageous friend. She's flush with gratitude.

"He went to the Ministry… to get a portkey. He says he might know where Draco is. France, he believes. Oh, Harry, I've really botched this up. All this time… He's been trapped for so long… and I just ignored it. I was just so sure…" She looks at him with imploring eyes. Looking for redemption, she supposes. Forgiveness.

But Harry isn't really the forgiveness she needs. He does try to be a little consoling anyway, and points out, "None of us knew," he offers earnestly. "His blood by his mother's body, the death date on the family tapestry… everything pointed to his death."

"Well the tapestry was obviously tampered with," she says back, agitated. "And blood does not equate to a corpse."

Harry nods, fully aware. "That's why the Aurors left his case open as long as they did. They wanted to be sure… You couldn't have known, Hermione," he insists.

She doesn't directly respond, and instead announces, "I'm going to go to the Ministry. I don't want Severus to decide to go without me. I should be there when he finds him. It's… it's the least I can do."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

She considers it for a moment but shakes her head. "Not yet. I'll have Snape, and I know you're probably busy tonight."

"Not too busy. I'm never too busy if you need me. You know that, yeah?"

Hermione throws her arms around her friend's neck, mumbling into his shoulder, "I know. Thank you, but I'll be fine." She releases her hold on him and backs away a step, trying to give him a reassuring smile. "I'll keep you up to date, if we travel."

"I think I'm more worried about Malfoy than anything." He grins, and he is obviously trying to break the tension. "I mean, he lived in your room for weeks. Did he ever catch a glimpse of you in your knickers or anything?"

She blushes an impossibly deep shade of red and tries very hard not to let the look on her face read the truth that he also saw her without her knickers.

Often.

"I can't blame him for anything he might have seen or not seen," she answers, slightly defensive in her embarrassment. "He told me he was real, after all. It's… my fault I didn't believe him." Ugh, that feels bitter in her mouth. Hermione hates taking responsibility for her own failures.

With a parting perfunctory assurance that she will be careful, she slips out of the room and toward the floo. Grabbing a handful of powder, she tosses it in and says clearly, "Ministry of Magic."

The flames burn green and, with a fortifying breath, she follows Severus, determined to earn Draco his freedom.


	13. Chapter 13

Draco isn't entirely sure if he's disappointed or relieved when the door to the bedroom he occupies opens and reveals someone other than Hermione Granger.

"Ah, Potter the Prick," he announces. "Come to revel in my misfortune?"

"Well, if I wasn't before, your flattering pet name for me might change my mind."

"Granger tells me 'Scarhead' is juvenile. I'm trying to be more mature," Draco says with a mean and ironic grin. Thinking of Hermione, mentioning her, feels bitter on his palate.

"I can't believe you're really Malfoy," the tosser says, obvious and unsubtle as ever. Draco thinks he sounds like a complete moron.

"I do believe I told you that when you had me carried in to this dungeon of a house. Told everyone, actually."

"To be fair," Harry says, and Draco thinks no one should get him started on what's bloody fucking 'fair', "it was quite a fantastic notion. What would you have done if someone hauled my picture into Malfoy Manor and I started screaming to be let out?"

"I'd have chucked it into the attic most likely, with the portrait of Great Aunt Gertrude. She'd have liked you, actually. She always did like men with facial deformities."

"Gertrude," Potter tells him anecdotally, "is currently hanging in the western corridor of Nott Manor. Come to think of it, she is very polite to me," he adds thoughtfully with a roguish grin.

"Fucking hell, Potter. Does portrait fetish run in Gryffindor blood? Or is it just Golden Trio specific?"

He knows he might have made a mistake when Harry eyes him and asks for clarification, "Which means what, precisely?"

Draco leans back against the couch and studies his cuticles, feigning indifference and hoping to change the subject quickly. "Nothing, really. Just a unique and clever way to call you an arse. So are you part of the hero crusade to get me out, or are you letting my godfather do all the legwork?" He is relieved when Potter takes the bait, not wanting to, one, divulge the nature of his relationship to Granger, and, two, admit how little it had meant to her.

"I offered, but Hermione went along. Said I wasn't necessary at this juncture. Why on earth neither of them thought an Auror might be useful is beyond me. Do you know how much access I have?"

Draco starts to comment something about not knowing nor caring, when he really lets that sink in. "Isn't it, I don't know... your moral duty? Professional obligation, to help me? I don't see how Granger gets to make the call of who can or cannot assist in my rescue."

Potter cocks an eyebrow. "You didn't seem to mind relying on her for help when you arrived. Don't need the mudblood anymore then?" He says it cruelly, meant to cut. Meant to remind Draco of exactly why Potter might not feel inclined to assist him in any way.

"You shouldn't call her that," he mutters. "She's your friend."

"Oh, but you can call her any foul name you want, even when you beg her to help you? Don't think she hadn't told me you were asking. I'm aware of the research she did. The late nights. You think I couldn't tell she wasn't sleeping? I'm her best friend. Her brother. If I find out she's been so off her game because you've been cruel to her-"

Draco cuts him off with a bark of dark laughter. Cruel to her? Oh, that's just fucking perfect. "I've been the furthest from cruel to her, Potter," he spits out, hitting the consonants of his name hard and with obvious distaste. "I suppose there are some things she doesn't tell her so-called brother then."

"Enlighten me then, Malfoy," and Potter spits his name right back, just as much venom as Draco had managed dripping off his surname. "Why isn't she sleeping? Why did she just race out of here looking haunted that you're alive? I knew I should have moved you out of here sooner." His voice drops low, and he asks, "Did you threaten her? Is she afraid of you, Malfoy?"

The elastic of Draco's patience, his control, can only stretch so far. He grabs the crystal carafe of water from his side table and throws it hard against the framed view of his old rival. Potter ducks on instinct just before it crashes into what seems like nothing between them. The crystal shatters into countless shards as Draco offers an angry and anguished, "Fuck you! I didn't do anything to your fucking princess! Ask her just how nice I've been. How very fucking accommodating," he shouts.

He doesn't notice at first, simply standing and breathing hard, trying to calm his temper, but then sees Potter's eyes follow something in his peripheral. Glancing down, the shards of crystal are coming together and reforming the carafe. Each tiny sliver lays itself in place until the piece is once again sitting next to the bowl of fruit that never seems to diminish.

"That's impressive spellwork," the bastard breathes out, having the nerve to have a regular conversation in the middle of Draco's emotional fucking breakdown.

"Maybe someday you can have a purgatory of your very own," he offers with polite sarcasm and then, "Get me out of here, Potter. I'm a citizen of Wizarding Britain. It's your job." Lucius might not have been a perfect father, or even a mediocre one, but he certainly taught his son a thing or two about how to demand what you want, entitlement flavouring the words.

"You're not, in actual fact." Potter has the audacity to grin back. "According to the Ministry, you're a casualty, Malfoy. Now, if you ask nicely..."

"Oh, fuck off, then. I'll just wait for Severus to take care of it. He's twice the wizard you ever were."

Potter shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound of agreement. "That might be true, honestly. But then, I do love getting under Snape's skin... I suppose I'll tag along on this little quest anyway."

Draco blinks. "So…You're helping?"

"Auror... Gryffindor... why fight my nature?" He shrugs again. "Guess I have a portkey to catch."

With that, the wizard waltzes out of the room leaving Draco dumbfounded and not quite sure what just happened. Did he just goad Potter into helping? Or had he nearly convinced him not to with his verbal attacks? Either way, it seems Draco is now three times more likely to get his life back than he was this morning. That would all taste much sweeter if his heart hadn't been trampled in the process, but he's confident time heals just about anything.

And, if not time, whiskey, which is exactly the first thing he's going to get when he makes it out of this personal hell.

"Severus, wait!" Hermione calls to her partner and increases her pace until she is jogging through the atrium at the Ministry.

He turns to look at her. "Miss Granger?"

When she reaches him, she pauses to catch her breath, and it occurs to Hermione she might be getting a bit out of shape. "I thought, maybe, I should come with you. If you don't mind, of course."

He is looking at her with an eyebrow raised, letting her bury herself with the awkwardness she's feeling. She just hopes he doesn't ask-

"Why?"

-why.

Hermione seldom gets what she hopes for. She summons all of her cold logic and bravery, putting up a wall to the guilt that is threatening to topple her out of balance.

"Well," she says haughtily, "doesn't it make sense that we both work on the solution together? I've been working on it for weeks, after all."

"Yes," he notes in that smarmy way of his, "and what impressive headway you've made."

It frustrates Hermione to no end that she is petite and can never look down her nose at anyone. Because right now, in her head, she is looking down her nose at him something fierce. "There's no need to be cute about it. I'm offering to help. You can just say 'thank you' like a civilized person, and we can move on."

He's giving her that look of his, the one she really doesn't like, that typically means he's trying to puzzle out someone's true intentions. He'd better not be using Legilimency on her or-

"Or what, Miss Granger."

She imagines stomping her foot at him, completely petulantly, but knows he's already guessed it by the smirk on his face. "If you are insistent on accompanying me, it would have been just as easy to tell me you care for the boy."

She feels her face flush. "I never said that."

"I didn't need to take a dip into your mind to read that much, girl. You've always been an easy read for those of us keen of observation."

She doesn't know what to say to that, opening her mouth then closing it again. "Besides," he says with an evil little smile, "you've been privy to my most… intimate secrets. I feel very much as if we are back on even ground."

Her eyes go wide, and she blurts out, "How much did you see?!"

A rare bark of laughter from Severus, and he says wryly, "Nothing at all. But now I feel as though there was more to see than I had originally guessed." A thought occurs to him, the train of it a visible blow as his head rocks to the side. "Was there a purpose to the pedestal I had not known? A gift for Mister Malfoy perhaps?"

Hermione sighs, feeling quite a bit like her father is grilling her over a new boyfriend. "He seemed bored," she admits, defeated. "He'd read all his books. I thought it would be nice if he had something more."

He gives her a look and she bristles at it. "I hate that smile," she tells him. "You look entirely too smug right now, Severus."

He shakes his head at her and then gestures toward the lifts. "Shall we visit some politicians? It seems we have your beau to rescue."

She groans as she follows, shuffling her feet just a little, and feeling very much like a student following in her professor's wake.

They barely make it to the office of international travel when Harry is approaching them from another direction.

"Potter."

Harry ignores Snape this time and begins with Hermione. "Have you arranged travel yet?"

She shakes her head, glancing at Severus briefly. "We've just arrived. Do you know where-"

"Come on," he interrupts, grabbing Hermione by the hand. He looks back as he drags her along. "You do know Aurors can travel internationally right? I can simply open Malfoy's cause of death file again, and we'll be in France within the hour."

Glancing over her shoulder to be sure her partner is still following, she murmurs a sincere, "Thanks, Harry."

Behind her, Severus rolls his eyes and notes, "Yes, Potter. How the wizarding world made it two thousand years before your insufferable heroics is a mystery for the ages."

"Glad to be of service, Professor," he quips back, fully aware of how much the title grates on the man.

It doesn't take long for the bureaucratic paperwork and red tape, conveniently. Hermione imagines this would have been a much longer process in the muggle world. The intimate nature and low population of the magical world certainly has its advantages.

Percy had been working late, not a great surprise, and been happy to notarize the portkey order for the Ministry's records. "Taking a holiday?" he'd asked cheekily, eyeing the odd trio of them.

"Not as such," Harry had said with a bemused grin. "Severus and I wouldn't want Hermione tagging along. Would we, Severus?"

Hermione's partner had taken a deep breath and answered, voice icy, "There are limits to which I can suffer your idiocy, Potter."

Hermione had watched them, her proxy brother and father, and felt nothing but affection for the two wizards.

Affection and mild annoyance, but that's nothing new for Hermione's relationships. Ron inspired much the same. And Draco… Well, it seems Hermione has a 'type'.

Each laying one finger on an old muggle stop watch with a broken neck strap, they land in a large open space with vaulted ceilings and garish architecture and décor. "The French Ministry," Harry confirms. Even with his considerable pull, he wasn't able to avoid the proper channels. "We'll have to register our wands and give them our time table. How long do you imagine we will be here?"

Hermione had looked at Severus, being somewhat out of her element. "It would be hard to say, Potter, without even knowing where Armand's manor is located and how accessible it is." It seems the man is incapable of answering a question without sounding like it was a waste of his time to do so.

Looking around them, the foreign Ministry quiet in this late hour, Harry's gaze lands on an office with a large plaque over the door that reads 'Information'. "Brilliant, the signs are in English."

Speaking just enough French to know that simply is the word for information, Hermione doesn't correct him and follows behind her friend.

Harry raps on the frame of the door, and they are greeted by an older woman with a gaze piercing enough to make Severus seem downright warm.

"Hullo," Harry greets her with that boyish charm of his turned up to eleven. "I'm Auror Potter from the British Ministry. I'm just wondering-"

"Oh, Auror Potter, is it?" She asks with a thick accent and a lot of condescension. "And I suppose you're Hermione Granger then? And this must be Albus Dumbledore, Oui?"

"Er," Harry answers, obviously put off his roguish game.

"I am offended to my core, Madame," Severus offers, unhelpfully.

Hermione, finding her natural gift must be an immunity to sarcasm, thereby explaining her 'type', barges forward and confirms, "Yes, actually, I am Hermione Granger. And as my friend, Harry here, was saying, we need access to your archives of the Malfoy family history as well as sanctioned apparition or portkey travel to the ancestral home."

The woman starts to answer, but Hermione talks over her. "And this," she says with an agitated gesture, "is Severus Snape. Because Dumbledore, you see, is dead, Madame. If you insist on making clever remarks, do try to be at least somewhat clever."

The room is silent for more than a beat.

"Well," the woman finally says, "you certainly sound enough of a harpy to be Hermione Granger."

Both Harry and Severus snicker at that, then exchange a look with one another.

"I do have credentials," Harry offers, slightly sheepish.

The woman holds out her hand and then snatches the parchment Harry offers. Her eyes scan the page back and forth for some time. Hermione thinks unkindly that either the woman has very poor reading comprehension, or she is making them wait on purpose to be, as she accused Hermione, a fucking harpy.

Only a slight widening of her eyes tells them she is surprised they are who they claim to be. "Very well, then," she finally says, clipped and curt. Without further conversation, the woman hands the parchment back and gestures, a wave of her wand and a flick of her wrist, to a door that appears to her right.

"Through there, turn left, and you will arrive at the historical archives. Once you find whatever it is you need, Jeanine will direct you to travel licenses. Good evening."

With that, she resolutely goes back to whatever paperwork has kept her late into the night, not even looking up at them for a response. The three exchange a look, and then head toward the door and their tour de France.


	14. Chapter 14

Draco has been left alone in Potter's shite house in Granger's depressing room to his own bloody devices for two fucking days.

In the beginning, when he first woke in this strange room more than a year before, Draco had always been alone. For days, everything outside of his space had been quiet. He couldn't even tell how long it had been.

Calling for help hadn't seemed to do anything but make his voice hoarse, and, eventually, Draco thought it might be best to try to find a routine. He slept in what he assumed were relatively normal spans of hours, he ate from the limitless food that appeared in crystal dishes around the room, and he read. After he finished his fifth full length novel, he had trouble keeping his mind occupied, and the panic had begun to truly set in.

Draco was always an intelligent wizard, and, with intelligence, had come imagination. No one seemed to realize how creative the spellwork had been to charm those 'Potter Stinks' badges back at Hogwarts. Everyone thought for sure he would fail at fixing the Vanishing Cabinet, but, when he succeeded, no one wanted to tell him how clever he was. Who would have praised him? He was a villain to half the wizarding world, a scape goat to the rest.

But he was intelligent and creative and suddenly those things became a curse. He imagined his whole life, stretched before him, decades of solitude until he would die, alone and afraid. Or perhaps worse (or maybe better), what if something were to happen to him? What if he had an accident? Or developed a disease? No one could care for him. If he so much as cut himself shaving, he could bleed out on his bathroom floor.

The depression came next. It had been perhaps two months by that point, but that is merely a guess. He was lonely, and he sobbed when he tried to sleep, thoughts circling darker by the day, until cutting himself no longer sounded like an accident as it did a plan. Would it not be better to rejoin the earth? To free his magic to the ether, rather than to fade slowly, a wraith in his own private hell?

The first big change came just in time to squash those thoughts and plans. Looking back, he isn't sure if he would have had the courage to do himself in, but he knows he was at least seriously considering it at the time.

On what had started as one more in a vast sea of depressing days, a light had come on in a room Draco had never seen. There was a mirror, or what he had assumed was supposed to be a mirror, hanging on the wall opposite the sofa where he slept. It had always been black within its ostentatious gold frame, and Draco had assumed it was a charmed mirror, and the magic was corrupted. Within its frame, a room had popped into existence.

The light from this new space had broken through the previous pitch black and flooded into what he realized then as his relatively dimly lit room. Squinting against it, he had never been more elated to see another person. Some middle aged wizard and what appeared to be his slightly younger partner were scanning around themselves and seemed to barely notice Draco.

He had risen and approached the mirror, touching it cautiously. He's not sure what he had expected. Would it ripple and give under his touch? Allow him passage through? Or would he simply walk unimpeded into the next room?

Unfortunately, none of that happened. His hand laid flat against what felt like cold glass, and still the men barely saw him. "Are you…" His voice was rough and choked, having not used it since he stopped screaming weeks before. "Are you here to get me out?" He'd long since theorized he might be a captive of some kind, either arrested by the Ministry or in a clutches of a rogue Death Eater, and hoped to determine which one was true.

The wizards had exchanged a glance and shrugged before the older one spoke. "Let's start with the chatty one, then."

The younger one had given Draco a once over that made him feel a bit violated. "A bit big, wouldn't you say?"

He hadn't known what to make of that, and wanted very badly to shut off his active imagination.

"Best to get it out of the way, then. The rest look easy enough."

The rest? Draco had watched their exchange, trying to stay calm. "Look, I don't know who you work for, but I can pay you. Very handsomely. Just get me out of here and the Malfoy fortune is open to you. Name your price."

The younger, and slightly creepier, wizard had snickered but not responded. Draco had backed up a pace as the two surrounded him, standing, barely visible, just off each side of the mirror frame. They were no longer paying attention to him, a fact that would have offended him had he not been terrified, and spoke to one another.

"Ready? On three."

The older one counted off, "One. Two. Three."

The two had bent at the knee and seemed as if they were gripping the very walls. Then the world had tilted, and Draco, though he was standing on solid ground, felt nausea watching the scene inside the frame. He tried talking to the men again, but they no longer answered. Eventually, he had laid on the sofa and closed his eyes, willing his stomach and his nerves to settle during whatever ordeal this was meant to be.

He'd chanced a look at the mirror once again after some time. An hour? More? He might have drifted off for a moment. The room outside had been bright once again, but now also crawling with witches, wizards, and a mountain of brick-a-brack. He'd thought briefly of the Room of Hidden Things before remembering it was completely destroyed, thanks in large part to him and his poor, stupid friend Vince.

"Hello?" He'd called, panicked and excited and wretchedly grateful to see more living beings than he could ever imagine. None of them seemed to hear, however, so he'd tried again, louder. "Hello?! Can you hear me?!" He pounded on the glass then, yelling, increasing his volume until he was screaming himself hoarse all over again, for the first time in weeks.

"Can someone silence that one?" He'd watched, incredulous, as a witch had rolled her eyes at the wizard who spoke and then flicked her wrist in Draco's direction.

They hadn't even looked at him. Just silenced his pleas and gone about whatever it was they were doing. Understanding he had been shut out, Draco took to watching them, trying to determine what they were doing and where he was.

Many of them had parchments in hand, lists of script across them. They had seemed to be crossing off items, checking them against the contents of the room.

Eventually, a young wizard had wandered over his direction, eyeing Draco and the room around him, before he checked off his list and started to move on.

Draco had waved to him frantically, pleading with his eyes not to turn away, not to ignore him as the others had.

With an obvious, visual sigh, the young man had waved his wand and asked, "Yes?"

"Please," he'd started, not ashamed at all by the begging in his voice, "Can you tell me where I am? How long I'll be held here?"

A beat had passed in which he didn't think he would receive an answer. Finally, the wizard said, "This is the newly formed Ministry Department of Wealth Redistribution. The effects of Death Eaters are catalogued here until the inheritor is determined. You and the other portraits will be sent on to wherever the family property is being taken, I reckon."

"Portraits?" Draco had wracked his brain, trying to quickly summarize everything he knew and coming up with a terrifying answer. "You think I'm a portrait?"

The little shite had the audacity to roll his eyes. "What else would I imagine you are?"

"I'm Draco fucking Malfoy, is what I am! I'm… I've been cursed! Must've been! I am certainly not a bloody portrait!"

The prick had raised his brows at him and then seemed to take great pleasure in waving his wand once again, and Draco had known immediately he'd been silenced.

For days after, Draco had cycled through pounding on the mirror, screaming at the top of his lungs, and trying to catch anyone's eye so they might talk to him. Sometimes, it worked. The best he could hope for was a brief but friendly conversation with the more personable of the workers. More commonly, however, the occasional witch or wizard would ask if he needed something (in that perfunctory, polite way he remembered the faculty had spoken to the portraits, and even the ghosts, of Hogwarts), but none of them ever believed he was who he said.

Eventually, he'd given up looking for any true assistance and settled in until something changed. They had told him he would go to the inheritor of his estate, specifically his Mother's side of the inheritance, as was most of the décor from the manor in accordance with their marriage contract. Through conversations he confirmed that was indeed the case, as both of his parents had been presumed dead. He'd cried for his mother, great choking sobs of despair for the woman who had loved him more than life, and cursed his wretched father's name.

Surely, he'd thought then, they would take him somewhere that would help him. Who would receive his estate? Another pureblood family, no doubt. They are all so tied together on their family trees, he naturally assumed he would see a friendly face at last.

Not the Crabbe's, he had surmised. With the younger dead, and his father likely in Azkaban (if not sharing his fate), he had doubted there was anyone left of that family to inherit anything. The Parkinson's, perhaps? Pansy had avoided the brand that blemishes Draco's perfect skin, and her father had managed to remain unmarked as well: a quiet sympathizer, mired in plausible denial.

Draco's greatest hope had been that they would send him to Theo Nott's family estate. While his father had been a follower of the Dark Lord, Theo had rebelled quite spectacularly, telling his father he had no intention of doing the bidding of a half blood with Daddy issues. Except he said it more smarmy and clever, and his father had beaten him bloody for his effort. Theo had recounted that particular story wearing a black eye like a badge of honor.

The process of estate placement took weeks. Months probably. He asked someone at some point for the date, and they'd answered back that it was November. Half a year spent in that place. Reading the same books and eating charmed fruit and nuts and wishing to Merlin he could just get a fucking drink.

No one came during the yule season. The room had been silent for days, presumably while the staff was on holiday. After months of activity, the bustle of work being done outside his window to the world, the quiet nearly killed him. His relief to see the workers return was only second to the relief at their initial appearance.

Finally, sometime in the spring, he'd heard that his family's fortune would be moving out of holding. They had spent nearly a year in search for his parents and officially closed the case, declaring them all dead.

"Including that slippery little ponce, Draco," the Ministry worm had commented. Draco memorized his face for swift retribution as soon as he would be released.

Draco's mood lightened considerably after that, knowing he was about to be moved into a private home where he could convince, one on one, some witch or wizard of high social standing that he was more than he appeared. That, in actual fact, he is a living soul locked in a painting.

Imagine his complete and utter devastation when the Ministry's hired muscle had deposited his frame, along with a pile of his mother's family trinkets, facing none other than Harry fucking Potter.

"Bullocks."

The tosser had squinted and leaned forward for a better look. "Is that Draco Malfoy's portrait?"

"Yes," the delivery crew had said, just as Draco shouted, "No, you utter arse!"

"Where do you want us to place it," the same man had asked, and Potter had glanced around his own fucking house like he'd forgotten where the walls were kept.

"It's really big," he'd commented, further supporting Draco's theory that he's the stupidest wizard on earth.

"That's not what your girlfriend says." Alright, so admittedly it had not been a red letter moment.

"There's a bedroom on the second floor," Potter had said, completely ignoring Draco's clever, if childish remark. "It has a large open wall."

"Trying to get me in your bedroom, Potter?" He'd offered his signature Malfoy sneer, and, finally, Potter had risen to his bait.

"You only wish, Malfoy. Glad to see your death hasn't dampened your charming personality. Anyway, it's not my room you'll be invading, and I expect you to be respectful."

They had started moving then, Draco's frame being levitated through the dank and rundown townhome of the once great Black family. Potter had walked beside him, seeming to have more to say.

"Don't tell me I have to share accommodations with your pet weasel." Potter hadn't answered, and Draco had continued taking in the surroundings in silence. Levitating had been much less nauseating than being carried by a couple of Ministry fuck ups; probably squibs in hindsight.

"Just there," the tosser finally said, pointing vaguely where Draco couldn't see as he directed the hanging of the frame.

After the crew had been escorted out, Potter had returned to the room where he'd left Draco and leveled him with a hard look. "I don't know where else to store you," he'd started with no preamble, "but don't think I won't hesitate to toss your canvas hide onto a pyre if you're cruel to her."

Draco remembers being confused at that, wondering if Potter was still hung up on the girlfriend comment. "I don't actually give a toss about your little red headed piece-"

"I don't have a red headed anything, and I'm talking about Hermione."

Granger. Draco's wheels had turned immediately. Brilliant, studious, swot extraordinaire. It had felt perfect: his best chance to escape. Better than Pansy. Better than Theo. "I'll be polite, don't worry. Look, Potter," he had leveled with him, trying for sincerity, "the thing is, I'm not a portrait."

He'd seen the other man start to argue, and Draco pushed on. "I know that's what they told you, what they think, but I'm not. I'm Draco. Not sure how I ended up in here, but this," he had gestured to the room around him, "is a real place. I'm real."

Potter, of course, hadn't believed a word, telling him as much and wandering off, and Draco had settled in to wait for Granger, only to be reacquainted with her half clothed and humping Cormac Mc-bloody-Laggen's leg.

Which leads him back to today, alone once again and utterly devastated. As distraught as he'd been, as completely heartbroken and angry, he certainly hadn't expected her to leave him like this. Even if she hadn't thought he was really a person, even if she was doing nothing more than fulfilling a little fantasy in their weeks together, he thought she might have had enough empathy, enough fucking compassion, not to condemn him to solitude once more.

He's started to think she has truly abandoned him to his fate, when she shocks him by breezing into the room, kicking off shoes and shedding clothes as she does.

"Granger, what the fuck-"

He begins to ask where she's been. Or maybe, he wants to know what she's doing now. It doesn't matter because she starts when he speaks, almost like she has forgotten he was there.

Which is fucking ridiculous, and stings all over again.

"Draco! Oh, Merlin, I'm so sorry! I should have said I was leaving, but Severus already had a head start. I was just so focused…"

He stares back, completely incredulous. How can she vanish for two days, then come back in and apologize like she forgot to mention she was running down to the pub?

"Where the fuck have you been?!" he yells back at her, equally relieved and incensed.

"Oh," she deflates a little, a blush suffusing her cheeks. "We went to France. To the Malfoy estate built by Armand Malfoy before he came to England. We think… that is, Severus thinks… you might be there."

He waits, trying really fucking hard to be patient, before barking, "And?!"

"Well, we couldn't breach the wards," she admits. "We've just come back get some research materials and maybe some clothes before we return. Severus has some information about French traditional warding and-"

"Their familial, Granger," he says, likes it's the most obvious thing in the world. He's irritated beyond measure, but also eager to assist where he can. Many of the older Sacred estates are based on geographical traditions, but the Malfoys were always the proudest of their own name. "The old family estate had blood wards. You need someone with Malfoy blood to get you through."

He watches those proverbial wheels turning in her head, eyes darting about but seeing nothing.

"Of course! Theo!" She looks back at Draco and asks, "Would Nott be sufficient? He's connected to the Malfoy family closer than any other family. He even inherited your father's side of the estate!"

There is an ill-timed fissure of jealousy at the mention of his old friend. "Theo, is it?" he baits. "Do you have an arrangement with him as well? Like with McLaggen?"

Hermione screws up her face and denies, "No. Of course not. And I… I mean, I don't have an arrangement with anyone. I haven't even seen Cormac in weeks."

"Ah, right. You had a portrait to use instead. Is this a habit for you as well? Or was I your first in this particular fetish?" He infuses as much mockery, as much cruelty as he can, blackening the words into something he's pretty sure they can't come back from.

Fuck, if he hasn't missed her. Then she breezes in, treating him like a hobby project and talking about Theo with more fondness than she ever would have him. He's inexplicably angry and hopes very much she feels the sting of it.

"I wasn't-" she begins, then stops.

"Wasn't using me?" She doesn't respond, just stares at him with wide eyes, and he thinks that's answer enough. "Get out, Granger. Or, better yet, move my fucking frame. I'm sure I don't need your pity to get Theo's help."

She doesn't move, doesn't speak, so Draco does the only thing within his power. He leaves his room, slamming himself once again into his cramped en suite. When he emerges, no more than a half hour later, she is long gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hermione fancies herself a problem solver by nature. A finder of solutions. A witch who can answer any question and decipher any puzzle. She has little doubt that there is a way to rescue Draco, and, that she, along with her very intelligent partner and tenacious best friend, will find it. This clue regarding the wards will simply move up the time table and make their jobs that much easier.

What she is not as adept at solving, unfortunately, revolves more around matters of the heart.

Hermione is an emotional being, of that she is sure. She always accused Ron of being shallow and predictable, selfish and incapable of deep emotion. By contrast, Hermione feels things deeply and analyzes them beyond reason. Unfortunately, emotions and being analytical are in antithesis of one another, and it often leaves her floundering.

She had raced into her room, intent on moving quickly as to not waste time, Draco's freedom the only thing on her mind. She had startled when he spoke, his tone agitated and volume loud, and found Draco in his frame with his eyes narrowed and fists clenched. She knew this was a problem that needed to be solved, had known it before they even returned, but didn't know how to go about it. Hyper focused as she was on the task of finding him, she compartmentalized the need to reconcile with him.

Now, he has slammed himself in his only private space, and she is left staring after him, feeling the bite of guilt muddied by the of anger and hurt at his cruel words. She's a roulette of emotional response, standing and blinking, before landing on guilt as her defining feature. His cruelty is a response to his own hurt, and doesn't she deserve at least a little of his ire?

She doesn't stay long this time. She doesn't pound on the portrait or try to yell through the door. With a sigh, Hermione grabs the clothes and toiletries she came for and makes her way back to the parlour in Grimmauld.

"Is he excited we're making headway?" Harry favours her with his usual boyish charm, but she grimaces in response.

"Not as such," she mutters back.

"Was he petulant and angry to be left to stew while we gad about the world over?" Severus' assumption seems much more true to Malfoy form, and Hermione nods.

"I probably should have told him how long we would be gone, or... I don't know," she falters with a sigh, "Something, I suppose." She shakes her head, going back to what she knows, what she's good at. "But, he did say the wards at the estate will be blood wards. Malfoy family specific. So I thought, maybe Theo?" She looks at Harry, knowing her friend has developed a camaraderie with the former Slytherin during the past year, first in Theo's ancestral dealings with the Ministry and then through a mutual interest in Quidditch.

Harry seems to ponder a moment, slowly working out the possibility. "He does have a family connection, obviously. I don't know if it's close enough..."

"Pray that it is," Severus says curtly, decisive as ever. With a characteristic billow of his robe, he spins in place then approaches the floo. "Nott Manor," he barks and tosses the powder in, not even looking back to see if his cohorts will follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay before 13. Since that one was short, I thought I'd put up 14 a bit faster. Thank you to all of you sticking with me :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay!!!

Left in Severus' wake, Hermione exchanges a look with Harry, and he shrugs. He gestures casually to the floo and offers, "After you?"

With her nod in response, they follow, announcing clearly, "Nott Manor", and nearly run into their ex-professor's back when they emerge.

"Granger? H- Potter?"

Hermione peers around Severus to find a very confused Theo.

She sees him, on occasion. He even came to Grimmauld once, he and Harry having decided to take in a Puddlemere game together. As much as she can tell from their limited encounters, he always seemed a sort of odd and flighty wizard, but had seemed particularly uncomfortable that day. It must have been contagious, because her usually easy going best friend had been equally unsettled.

New friendships, she'd thought, are often full of self-conscious behavior.

"Mister Nott," Severus drawls, "we appear to be in need of assistance, and you, as it turns out, are a logical first attempt."

"All of you," he starts with a raise of his eyebrow, "together… as a group, need my help?"

"It's not for us," Hermione is quick to tell him, lest he not think a pair of Gryffindors and his aging professor to be worth his time. However, she stops before she says more, not sure how much she can divulge. Can they trust Theodore Nott? Draco, once freed, will have quite an uphill battle to get his life back. Assuming he's not put on trial for collusion with the Death Eaters, he will still have to reverse the declaration of his death. Not to mention, his wealth is currently sitting in the hands of two wizards in this room. Hermione trusts Harry to do the right thing, assuming he will relinquish the estate, but she doesn't know Nott well enough to have that much confidence.

She clamps her mouth shut, and all eyes are on her. "Hermione?" Harry is looking at her in question, and she's trying to give him the universal side eye to keep his mouth shut.

An exchange is passed between Harry and Theo that she doesn't quite understand, and the Nott heir raises a brow in their direction. "If not you, who is it for, if I might ask."

"That's not really important, surely," she says, trying to out-slippery a Slytherin. "The important thing is that someone needs assistance. Life or death, really… Can we count on you?"

He is looking resolutely unimpressed at her for a beat, then turns his eyes to Harry. "Well?"

"It's Malfoy."

"Harry!"

Hermione's dearest friend in the whole world has the nerve to simply shrug his shoulders at her. "We need his help," he says.

Theo, for his part, is looking a bit stunned. "Wait, do you mean Draco?" he asks, insistent. "Is he alive? Have you found him?"

His laid back and smarmy persona seems to be breaking under urgency.

"He's been cursed, Mister Nott. It seems our Mister Malfoy has found himself within the confines of a portrait. Though, perhaps cursed is an ill chosen word. The intention, unless I miss my guess, which would be a rare event indeed, is protection."

"Where is he?"

"Hanging in my room," Hermione jumps back in, trying to regain control of the situation. "He was delivered with the Black inheritance."

Theo glances at Harry. "But that was weeks ago. You had his portrait and didn't think to tell me?"

Harry rubs a hand sheepishly on the back of his neck. "Yes, well, we didn't realize it was Malfoy at the time. That is, we knew it was him in the painting, we just didn't realize he was really in it."

"Yet you didn't imagine I might want a chance to speak to my oldest friend? Even as a portrait? What the fuck, Harry?"

"If the lover's quarrel could wait for a more opportune time," Severus drawls, getting everyone back on task.

Hermione is very intrigued to see Harry blush but not protest.

Huh. Seems there might be a conversation for later.

"Is he… wait-" Theo turns to Severus then. "Protection. He was cast into a painting, then? By whom?"

Severus lists an eyebrow. "I have my suspicions, but of course they are merely that. Knowing the history of Dark magic within his lineage, Lucius likely enacted the ritual."

"He's dead," Nott offers, looking a little struck. "Can we get Draco out if the caster is gone?"

"We don't know," her partner answers simply. "However, you, having a modicum of Malfoy blood, might be of some assistance to us. Will you accompany us to France?"

"I- Of course. Let me just…" He's looking around, spinning a bit in place as if he's forgotten his shoes or his head somewhere. Patting at his robes, he feels for his wand, and then nods. I guess I don't really need anything. Can I talk to him?"

Hermione has an instinct to scream a definite and defensive 'no'. To protect Draco? Perhaps. Possibly, she is still reeling from their fight, and selfishly wants to keep him to herself. He asked to be moved out of her room. What if he sees Theo and asks to be taken there? She can't entertain the idea of relocating him until they can hash out whatever has happened between them. If he still wants to be moved after she has had her say, then she will have no recourse but to watch it happen.

"I don't see why not," Harry answers instead.

"We shouldn't waste time," Hermione blurts out. "I mean, you can see him when we find him… or at least when you get back, right? We should go to France. We already have a portkey that's sanctioned for another few days." She looks between the three wizards, gauging their reactions. Surely they can't see through her motivations. She just wants one more private conversation with him. What she'll say, she has no idea. It's that one problem she can't solve. At the very least, he accused her of using him, and she had faltered in response, guilt letting the implication hang between them as truth. She needs him to understand there was more between them than erotica and trivia, than sexual games and laughter to pass the time. She simply hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge it.

"Let's go then," Theo says, already stepping toward Severus. "You have the portkey on you?"

The older wizard nods, and Hermione grabs Harry to drag him closer as well. "Thank you," she tells Theo. "Thank you for coming with us."

"You're welcome, I suppose, Granger. But you have to know I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for-"

"For Draco," Harry interrupts quickly. "Yes, we know. And it's appreciated. I'm sure he'll reiterate that sentiment."

Theo frowns at Harry but nods. "For Draco."

Severus pulls the broken stopwatch from his pocket. It will work to send them to France countless times as long as it is within the next few days. Holding it by the broken strap (which is not part of the portkey charm), he asks them, "Ready?"

They all nod and reach to place a hand on the face of the watch. In a blink, Nott's sitting room is empty, and the team is back in France.

The next day is more successful than before. Hermione, along with her entourage of wizards, is able to breach the grounds.

Severus' knowledge of the old rites combined with the Nott bloodline is enough to find a weak point in the wards. It seems that his lineage crosses the Malfoy lines in more instances than any of them knew, having a history of his Scandinavian roots mingled with the original French Malfoi family. They enter through an elaborate wrought iron gate on the south side of the property. The estate, they find, is well kept but has an air of desolation and no sign of life: no food stuffs in the kitchens, no kindling for the fireplaces, no clothing or personal effects. The estate, which has belonged to the Malfoy family for centuries, seems as though it has not been used by at least the last two generations.

Harry says they should look for a lower level, slipping into a roll of authority. Before he can finish the sentence, Severus is already striding toward a set of stairs off the kitchen. Hermione watches Harry look back at Theo, who resolutely does not make to follow. Eventually, her friend turns around with a sigh and leaves the room.

"Perhaps we should try the library?" she says aloud to Theo. "Study? Maybe there are records kept." He nods at her, and they make their way to the eastern end of the house to begin.

"I didn't realize that you and Harry are… close," she begins carefully, unsure how much he will divulge.

"Yes, well, as you might also have noticed, 'close' is a fairly relative term. Not close enough that he thought to tell you obviously. Or anyone…" he mutters at the end.

"Is he… Is Harry hiding it on purpose?" She has trouble believing it, that her brave and caring friend would enter into a relationship, of whatever sort this is, only to be ashamed or embarrassed. She's honestly offended on Theo's behalf.

"For my own good, he's told me." At the look on her face, he conjures up a wry smile. "Probably for the best, honestly. His career is fresh, and I'm one degree of separation from a known Death Eater."

Hermione shakes her head at him. "Don't think for a minute I won't have some choice words for him when we're done here," she warns, and Theo chuckles at her.

"Ever the champion. Draco's lucky to have you on his side."

She flushes a little, thinking Draco would heartily disagree with that sentiment. Maybe she doesn't have a right to judge Harry too harshly.

At least until they can have this out properly.

They split up briefly, Nott finding a staircase that leads down, and Hermione heading into a formal sitting room off the entryway.

She circles the perimeter, taking note of the pristine condition of the sparse furnishings and ornate rugs. Everything in the room is lush, an antiquarian's wet dream. On the western wall, she reaches a cold and empty fireplace, not so much as a speck of soot on the grate. Hermione runs a forefinger along a mantle and inspects her skin for dust. It comes away clean.

"Charms to ensure cleanliness. All the old estates and manors have them," Nott tells her, approaching from the doorway. "It frees up the house elves for cooking, laundry…" He trails off with a shrug.

"Did you find anything down there?"

Theo shakes his head, frowning. "Nothing," he says, and then comments, awed and affected, "I can't believe he's alive…"

Hermione is a little startled by the amount of emotion in his voice, but is at a loss as to how to respond. It seems they may have been closer than she realized, and she's glad Draco will have someone when he's freed. With his family gone and many of his former friends either dead, incarcerated, or expatriated, he could end up very lonely. She'd like very much to count herself in his circle of companions as well, and hopes to be able to breach their rift before he can shut her out for good.

Harry and Severus find them then, both looking frustrated. "I'm just saying, maybe if we check that building behind the shrubberies-"

"The old families," he says, measured and pointed, "do not place an oubliette in the garden shed, Potter."

Harry throws up his hands. "Then what are we even doing here? What are we meant to find?"

"Information," Severus drawls back. "I know the Aurors are more accustomed to brute force and shows of arrogant power-"

"Fuck off, Snape," Harry finally snaps, their banter reaching a level Hermione has yet to witness. She raises an eyebrow at her friend.

Severus mirrors her look, or perhaps she had mirrored his, and Harry simply turns away, leaving from the way they came.

"Perhaps you'd like to follow?"

Hermione starts to protest that, no, she doesn't think Harry is interested in her company right now, but stops when Theo grunts and moves to go after him.

"Am I the only one who didn't know about that?" she asks, gesturing after her friend and his apparent lover.

Severus scoffs a little, his version of a controlled laugh. "I believe I'm the only one who does know, Miss Granger, and due to pure happenstance."

She gives him a look, rife with incredulity. "I caught them in an alley just off the shop this past spring."

Continuing to gape, she lets him know with her eyes that more information is necessary, and he sighs. "Miss Clearwater expressed interest in… finding a more exciting location for our liaisons."

"More exciting than the till at our shop?" Hermione is finding out quite a lot about her friends' love affairs today. Too bad she messed hers up so spectacularly.

"Let us explore the upper floor," he says, blatantly ignoring her quip, and she follows him from the room.

The estate holds nothing Hermione had hoped.

No ancient texts or tomes of the family's history.

No secret lever revealing a hidden room, a grateful Draco waiting inside.

No Sherlockian clues of how to open the oubliette or even find its location.

For all intents and purposes, the house is completely abandoned, with no sign of a secret use. They can't be sure that Draco is here or that he isn't. By evening, Nott has had enough.

"We need a curse breaker. I'll hire one, if it's the money." He's looking at them accusingly, as if they are keeping Draco trapped on purpose.

"We can call Bill," Hermione offers, knowing the oldest Weasley would happily lend his services.

"Set it up," Nott says, a wave of his hand signifying the conversation is done. "Now, I want to see Malfoy. The poor bastard is probably going crazy." He grins for the first time of the day. Hermione can tell easily that it's not glee at Draco's expense as much as a genuine excitement to see his friend.

They use their return portkey, dropping them back into Grimmauld place, and Severus makes toward the floo. "I'll contact Mister Weasley," he offers. With their agreement, he leaves them to their devices.

The air in the room is awkward and thick. A semi-jilted lover, the offending party, and the friend who hadn't known any of it. "Where is he?"

Hermione turns to lead Draco's friend up the steps.

"Theo?"

They both stop, and Hermione notes the subtle pleading on her friend's face. He clears his throat, stalling as he collects his thoughts, she would wager.

"I'm not ashamed of you," he says, finally. "I'm not embarrassed that she knows." Harry gestures at Hermione. "The Aurors are still looking for Death Eaters. With your father… If anything ever comes down on you, I want to be able to help you without my motives in question."

Theo looks expressly uncomfortable, and Hermione thinks to give him some privacy. "Second floor, third door on the right," she says, then makes her way quietly up the stairs, wishing her friend the best in his own matters of the heart.

"Granger." Draco looks up at her coolly, and she swallows.

"Draco… Theo's here."

"Nott?" He stands from his sofa and walks a pace closer.

"He's downstairs, talking to Harry. He should be up any moment." Draco doesn't say anything, just eyes her then looks away, resuming his place on the sofa to wait. "We didn't find anything. In France. We're going to call a curse breaker."

He snorts at her. "That's expensive. Does Potter have any of my money left to pay for it?" he sneers. She'd forgotten how mean he could be. But her anger is long gone now. It just hurts her heart when he lashes out at her, even if it's meant to infuriate, she can only feel sadness.

"Bill Weasley will do it as a favor. But, yes, he hasn't touched your money," she says. "Now that he knows… I'm sure he will award it back to you, once you're free."

The look he gives her is scathing. She thought that at least would have given him comfort. "When are you moving me?" he asks, his expression increasingly frosty.

"I… the renovations aren't finished-"

"Then move me to fucking Theo's," he fumes.

She glances back at the door, hoping she has time before they are interrupted. "Are you sure…" she starts, "I mean, wouldn't it be better...that is…" Hermione is floundering. What possible reason could she give him to stay?

Well, she thinks to herself, you could stop being such a coward.

"I don't want you to go," she offers, admitting a truth she's barely accepted herself. These past weeks she has been so conflicted, feeling foolish for having intimate and raw emotions about the entire situation, only now to realize, she had every right to those emotions, but did him a disservice by denying them.

"Oh, I'm sure you don't," he sneers back, all sarcasm and cruelty. "I'm sure you'd love to keep me locked up here forever, your own personal Room of Requirement, fulfilling all your sick and perverse desires."

"No," she shakes her head, denying the accusation as much as the guilt roiling around her stomach. "I never meant to use you. I didn't even know it was you."

"Oh, that makes it much better," he deadpans.

"That's not what I...Draco, please-"

"Malfoy! Holy fuck, it's you."

Hermione turns to see Nott standing in the doorway, eyes wide, with Harry just behind him. They look to be at some sort of peace with one another. Perhaps Harry was more eloquent in his apology than Hermione has been. More open in how he feels. Maybe she should take a page from that book.

"Nott, you bastard, it's about time! Get me the fuck out of here!" His words are cutting, but there is an honest grin on his face. Hermione can tell he's the happiest he's been in days. He used to smile at her like that. Gods, this is painful.

"We're trying, you prick. How the fuck does something like this even happen?" Theo steps into the room, past Hermione, and studies the portrait closely.

"I'd make a quip about a picture lasting longer, but that seems redundant," Draco says to his friend, who chuckles in response to the bad pun.

"So you just…live in there?" Theo is looking around Draco into the room and studying his surroundings. "What do you eat?"

Draco turns and points to the bowl of fruit that always sits on his side table. "That," he says, "and there's another bowl with nuts you probably can't see."

"That's it? Merlin, you must be going crazy. They could have at least given you some whiskey."

Draco joins Theo in a soft laugh, then they both sober. "It's really good to see you," Theo tells him, voice suddenly thick, and Hermione watches Draco choke down the effect.

"You too, Nott."

Hermione braces herself, thinking, this is it. This is where she will lose him. He will ask to be moved to Nott Manor, and Theo will, of course, readily agree.

But then it never comes. They speak a little more, Nott giving specifics about France and their path, both to this point and forward. They discuss the theory that his father is how Draco ended up in this state. Harry is waiting silently by the door, and Hermione inches her way closer to her friend.

"Are you two alright?" she asks him quietly, still looking ahead of her, then turns her head to catch his expression.

Harry swallows. "I hope so. He's… I didn't realize what he thought," he whispers back, both of them not wanting to disturb the other conversation taking place. Hermione keeps one ear open on the conversation, hoping very much not to hear anything about 'moving' or 'manors' or 'evil harpy muggleborn witches'. So far, so good.

"Is it serious?" she asks, keeping her eyes on the reunion as it happens but very interested in this development with her friend.

"Yeah…" she catches him rubbing the back of his neck absentmindedly from the corner of her eye.

"I like him," Hermione comments offhandedly. "Not that my opinion matters," she adds with a grin, and Harry chuckles in turn.

"It does, actually. I hoped you would. He, uh… he likes you, too," he adds, and Hermione smiles.

"Molly will be heartbroken all over again," she says. "No hope of getting you back with Ginny now." Hermione tilts her head, pretending to consider, "Although, maybe now she could root for you with Ron…. Let me off the hook."

Harry gives her a look that is one part irritated, two parts bemused, and then Theo is saying his goodbye to Draco, and Hermione falls silent once again.

"Well, I think I'm going to turn in for the night," he tells them all. "Let me know if you hear from Weasley, Granger. Or Snape, for that matter."

"I'll walk you out," Harry offers, sounding very obvious and rehearsed and completely insincere. It seems like the collective room rolls their eyes.

"You mean you'll walk him down the hall, Potter?"

All eyes turn to Draco, and he smirks at his old rival. "What? I always knew Theo was a bit of a ponce. I just gave him credit for better taste until now." The jab sounds mean, but the grin remains, and Theo only laughs, taking Harry by the hand.

"Come on, Potter. You can apologize again before bed."

Hermione watches them go, smiling after her friend, but the expression falls from her face as soon as she turns around. Draco is staring her down with that same cold glare she starting to know as his usual expression.

"I'm just… I think I'll get ready for bed." She starts toward the bathroom, intent on scrubbing away the long day, and, in fact, long weekend, before turning in.

"Don't forget your knickers, Granger," she hears from behind her in his sarcastic drawl. Looking down at her empty hands, she curses as she turns around to stomp back to her dresser. She angrily grabs the first piece of satin in her unmentionables drawer, annoyed with herself over a great many things, the pair on top being one of those uncomfortable thongs not the least of them.

By the time she emerges from her shower, Draco is no longer visible in his frame, the door to his en suite closed.

Approaching the frame, Hermione takes a book from the shelf against the wall and lays it on the pedestal that is still sitting just in front. The title of the book is Atonement, and Hermione is very much trying to convey a message with the choice.

Settling in, she watches the portrait for a long time, though she isn't sure just how long it is. An hour, perhaps? More? Eventually, she falls into a fitful sleep full of stressful, agitated dreams. As she drifts off, she hopes to see Draco in the morning, but is very much afraid he will continue to avoid her until he's gone from her life completely.


	16. Chapter 16

Bill Weasley, Severus learns from a contact at Gringotts, has been contracted out to a Goblin bank in Denmark but will be home within the week. Once Severus had relayed this information the morning after their return from France, Hermione immediately sent an owl. She received a response from Bill that Grimmauld would be his first stop once he reached home.

Hermione is quiet at dinner. It's been a couple of days since France, and she is picking at her food, lost in a melancholy haze.

"Have you told Draco yet? About Bill coming Friday?"

"No… I haven't really seen him."

"I notice you're not spending much time in your room. Is it awkward?" he asks with sympathy. "Knowing he's Draco, I mean."

Hermione looks at Harry across the dining table, trying to formulate a response. "It's… It definitely changes things. But, more than that…"

She sighs, pushing her plate away, and preparing herself for the great emotional talk of '99.

"He thought I believed him, Harry. All these weeks… I told him I was still researching, which was sort of true," she's quick to add. "But I was looking at how to break a curse on a portrait. I let him believe I was trying to rescue him. He pinned all his hopes on me, and I… I never believed him," she says, though she knows Harry is already aware.

"Neither did I," he shrugs, and Godric bless him for his attempt at solidarity.

"Right, but you didn't act as though you did. You didn't string him along by effectively letting him believe you were going to be his savior." She grimaces, feeling bad all over again.

"He does seem… a bit salty with you. Saltier, I should say."

"I think I really hurt his feelings," she says. "I…" Another deep breath so she can take a proverbial plunge, both feet sinking to the very bottom of her honesty. "We had grown close. He thought we were friends. Good friends." She hits hard on the implication, letting her eyes speak of a deeper meaning.

"Oh, Merlin, are you serious? How? I mean… no, stop. I don't actually want to know how." He holds up his hand, as if his palm might physically stop the blow of her words, should she decide to be descriptive. "So he's… angry, I assume?"

She shrugs with little energy, desolation spilled all over the gesture. "Hurt. Angry. He's pouting."

"Can't say as I blame him," he mutters, and Hermione looks at him aghast.

"Harry! I'm the one looking for emotional support. Please keep in mind who your friend is in this scenario!"

Harry snickers at her. "Sorry, sorry. I'm sure he'll come around. I mean, how devastated could he be. This is Malfoy. Does he even have a heart in there?"

"Surprisingly," she comments, "a softer one than I'd thought."

"Well, he's such an entitled little prat, I'm sure he's used to getting at least three apologies before he accepts it. You might have to swallow your pride three times more than usual." He smirks at her, and she knows full well what he's getting at.

"I am capable of apologizing," she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"But only when you're wrong."

"Of course."

"Which is never," he grins.

"Obviously," she grins softly back.

The light atmosphere is a welcome change from the heaviness that has been on her heart. She's barely glimpsed a strand of platinum hair in two days. He seems to be hiding in his en suite and resolutely ignoring her. When she awoke after the first night, the book she left had been flipped all the way to the back cover, a sure sign he did not accept the sentiment that she could atone for anything.

"I suppose I might try to talk to him again. Though, he'll have to stop avoiding me," she adds with irritation.

"He's trapped in a bloody portrait. How on earth is he avoiding you?"

Hermione grabs her fork and pulls her plate back toward herself, picking at the remaining bits of rice pilaf. "He's been keeping to the loo. Sometimes I hear the door slam. I think he sees me stir in the morning and heads back in. When I come home, he's gone again."

Harry is eyeing her closely. "You really hurt him, huh?"

Looking sadly at nothing, her gaze focusing somewhere over Harry's shoulder, she says, "Yes," very softly. "I think I really did. And… I think it hurts me just as much because I really… I care about him. The whole time we were talking, spending time together, I was so sad he wasn't real. So, now, he is real, but he hates me." She focuses her eyes back on her friend. "I really messed up."

Harry reaches across the table, palm up, asking for her hand, and she slips her palm onto his. They stay that way for a few moments, Hermione soaking up the comfort her friend always knows when to offer. It's the tent all over again. Heartbroken over Ron and their desolate situation, and somehow Harry knew how to make her smile. Even if it was just a quick spin to a melancholy song, even if it wasn't lasting, he gives her comfort like no one else.

"Come on," he says finally, and rises from the table.

"Where are we going?" She asks, but she follows anyway. As has been true since she was twelve years old, she would follow Harry Potter just about anywhere.

They reach the door of her room, and Harry says, almost inaudibly, "Wait here."

He leaves the door open enough for her to peer inside. "Malfoy? Hey, Malfoy!" He says louder, and Hermione is trying to breathe quietly lest she miss her expected cue. She knows full well why Harry brought her here, and she's going to do it right this time. "I heard from Bill!"

She hears the door open, and Draco's voice respond from the portrait. "Weasley? Well?" He sounds a little entitled, as per usual, but there is also a bit of panic in his tone. Hermione squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block the guilt more than anything.

"I'll let Hermione give you the update," Harry says, and she understands that is what she's been waiting for. She takes two cautious steps over the threshold, and demurely tucks her hands behind her back.

"Draco."

His expression goes instantly stoic, and he refuses any sort of eye contact, opting instead to stare over the top of Harry's head.

"I'll just leave you to it, Hermione," her friend says and winks at her as he walks out, closing the door behind him.

"Childish, Granger, putting Potter up to calling me out here. Can you not take a hint? Just tell me about Weasley, then leave me the fuck alone."

"He'll be here on Friday," she says, and he immediately walks away, a gruff "thanks" tossed over his shoulder.

"Wait! Draco, please."

Hermione is honestly surprised he even stops, but he does, turning in place and glaring down his nose at her. "Yes?"

"Please don't go. Talk to me-"

"Oh, I've had quite enough talking to you, thanks. You've gotten everything out of me you ever will."

"Draco… I don't even know how to apologize for this." She would hang her head, but she's afraid if she drops her eyes he will disappear. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Who says I'm hurt?" he scoffs at her, emotional walls erecting in front of her eyes.

Hermione allows him his walls. It's the least she can do. "Offended then. Angry. I'm sorry I didn't believe you, but I didn't do it on purpose!"

"People very rarely apologize for things they do on purpose, Granger. Unfortunately, it's the thoughtless shite that's harder to forgive." His tone continues to bite, angry and hurtful, throwing back everything she can tell he's feeling. She feels a wave of regret, understanding how unhappy he is, all because of her.

"That's why I don't know how to apologize. It's not because I'm not sorry. I am," she stresses, meaning it more than she can ever remember. "I'm truly so sorry."

"Well thanks ever so," he sneers. "Now if you'll excuse me…" He turns once again, showing her his back and fisting his hands at his sides. Hermione starts to panic, chasing words around in her mind to find a way to verbalize what she's feeling. She thinks of Theo and the look of surprise on his face when Harry outed them in front of her. Her dearest friend always was a true Gryffindor: Brave to a fault and twice as foolish. Hermione, by contrast, sometimes wondered if she truly fit into the house that the Sorting Hat had finally landed on after so much deliberation. She often felt more like a Ravenclaw in lion's clothing or even a proverbial snake in the grass.

With a deep breath, she says quietly, "I'll miss you so much if you go." She sees him pause in step, but he doesn't turn to face her. "When you go," she amends, knowing it is only a matter of time. Once they break the curse, he's leaving whether they are reconciled or not. "You're different than I could have known, and I… I really like you. I never even tried to believe you were alive. At first it just seemed impossible, and then it was too disappointing to know you weren't." She squeezes her eyes closed, positive it will destroy her heart if he keeps walking.

"And just what do you want me to do with this? Tell you, 'it's fine', so you don't have to feel guilty? Forgive you for being thoughtless so you can go about treating me like a project until I'm no longer your concern?"

"I..." Hermione hesitates, unsure. Up until recently, she was resolutely not thinking about the future. To consider a "later"... an "after"... was to acknowledge a time that her little fantasy romance would come to an end. And since then? She's been stuck between a desperation to see him free and the devastation of the heartbreak she wrought. So what does she do with this? What happens after today, tomorrow, next week? Where does Draco Malfoy fall into her life now that she has the luxury to imagine him being in it?

"That's what I thought," he says bitterly, her hesitation stretching too long.

"I want to be something to you when you're free," she blurts out, just as he has reached the threshold of the door that would separate them once more. "Because you're already something to me," she adds by way of confession. "I want to visit other places with you, like we talked about."

She takes a step forward, closer to the painting, and Draco turns around to face her once more. She considers that small gesture a victory, wary though he looks. "I'd like to take you to the shop; show you what Severus and I have built. I think you'll like it. You were always a glad hand at potions."

He raises an eyebrow at her, she assumes in surprise that she had ever noticed him in their lives before now. "I know this has been..." She's searching for words, understanding the precarious position she's in. If she's too reserved, he won't think her genuine. Yet, if she's too aggressive, she could easily scare him away. "I'm not very good at relationships," she lands on, a little self-deprecation never hurting in situations like these. "And I didn't realize I was in one."

He snorts at that and rolls his eyes to the side, shaking his head in annoyance. Maybe more like disgust. "I think I made it pretty clear there was something here, Granger. At least, for me."

Though his demeanor is guarded, his tone still angry, his words give enough concession to kickstart her breathing once again. "I didn't want to let myself care too much," she admits. "I've been..." She swallows, bracing herself for a little more truth and the consequences it might bring. "I've been researching portrait curses. Because... even if I didn't think you were real, I wanted to help you. It made me feel terrible to know you were trapped in a nightmare. And the worst part..."

Hermione closes her eyes and takes a breath. When she looks back, he is eyeing her, still one part wary, but, also, intrigued.

"The worst part is, I was scared to find the answer because it would mean you would be gone. I knew if I helped you turn into a regular portrait, I'd lose you. The parts of you that could react. The parts that felt so real. It felt like I'd be sending you away."

She drops her eyes and admits, "I felt awful about that. Selfish. I've been... really conflicted; wanting to help you but wanting to be with you. And now… I could have had something with you, had I not messed it all up," she says with a grimace. "I want to fix this because I had feelings for you, against my better judgment, when I was sure you a memory. Apparently…I still do."

He's silent for a long time, and finally Hermione opens her eyes to find him staring at her. He's not glaring or eyeing or anything aggressive or angry. He's just looking. Considering her.

"And do you imagine you would have felt anything for me if you thought I was real? If we'd met on the street and somehow landed in conversation, you don't think you would have just brushed me off as a failed Death Eater?"

"Of course not," she answers quickly, brows furrowed at why he would even ask. "I never saw you that way, not really. I always thought there was more to you, and I feel so lucky I was able to see it."

He licks his lips, an unconscious habit she's noticed, like he's procrastinating; giving himself one more second to form a thought. "So what do you want to happen then, when I'm out? You imagine I'll be grateful and fall into your bed?"

She blinks at him, owlish and unsure. "I... I don't expect anything from you... like that. I'd like to get to know you. To... see you. Maybe eventually... if you feel the same... maybe we could be more? I just don't want to lose you entirely. You mean too much to me to just let you go."

His look doesn't change at first, and Hermione starts to lose her nerve. He feels used, and he has every right to that. She did use him, without even realizing it. She's bracing herself for the rejection she deserves, the prick of tears settling at the corner of her eyes.

"Wrong answer, Granger," he says. She's not sure where she went wrong, exactly, but she blew everything. In that moment, she truly realizes what she's lost, memories of the past weeks running through her mind of Draco laughing, smiling, tell her she's beautiful with more poetry and sincerity than any wizard before him.

Before she can speak, however, before she can decide if she's strong, or if she should let the tears fall, he says, "The answer was yes, Hermione. You can imagine me right here," he gestures with a nod to the room behind her, and she floods with relief.

"But you realize," he goes on after a beat, "that I might have nothing, right? I can't offer you anything but me. I've never been in a position like this before, but all I have is this." He holds his arms out, offering himself like a sacrifice, then drops his arms back down. "Maybe I'll get the estate back, but maybe not," he shrugs. "I've been thinking a lot, the last few days. Regardless of anything else…I need to be sure you know what you're getting if you really want to fight for me. There's not much here."

She shakes her head, a tear of relief slipping free. "There's a lot here," she argues. "Draco, I... I can't believe you're really alive," she finally whispers, letting the brunt of it slam into her heart. He's here: Draco with whom she's shared all these intimate nights, can actually have a place in her life. She had mourned the loss of his young life in an abstract way after the battle, and in a much more visceral way as she was able to know his personality and his dreams.

"I'm so happy you're alright," she says, because anything more would be presumptuous, but she couldn't feel more deeply than that particular sentiment. She is so happy, for the first time in months, because there is the potential for someone in her life that she truly cares about with no reservation. No apologies for behaviors she can't forgive or reconciling circumstance with desires. She's happy because a man who died and didn't deserve it is alive, his future granted back to him by the fates.

"Me too," he agrees, expression softening into the man she recognizes from the past weeks. Those beautiful grey eyes and natural tilt of his jaw, haughtiness taught from a young age to mask any weaker emotions. He is unique and tempting, proud and clever.

"I'm going to get you out of there," she says. "I know I promised that before... well, promised to help you, in a sort of vague and roundabout way-"

"Which was a very Slytherin omission of truth, by the way," he says with a cautious grin.

"But, I mean it," she goes on, smiling at his comment but unwilling to deviate from her own sentiment. "I'm going to get you out of there, and then I'm going to prove to you just how much you mean to me."

"I'm going to hold you to that, pretty witch. Honestly I think I'm due another apology once I'm out. A more 'hands on' show of contrition."

He winks at her, and Hermione smiles back, broad and full of relief. "Done," she says. "Hands and whatever else you'd like."

His smiles curls into something much more devastating, and Hermione feels a little weak in the knees. "Get me out of here, Granger. You're fucking mine the moment I'm free."

Thank sweet Salazar she has enough snake in her to navigate a Slytherin. She's not sure she deserved his easy forgiveness, but she's not going to let him regret it.


	17. Chapter 17

"Have a lovely day, dear." Draco is smirking at his witch as she runs about her bedroom, grabbing her things and trying to fly out the door. She's late, she says, probably because he kept her up past the witching hour engaging in, for lack of a better term, 'make-up sex'… if you can do such a thing without touching. Based on the exhaustion in his bones and the lightness of his heart, he thinks you very much can.

They had discussed the nature of their relationship before anything else, both the before and going forward. Draco understood that her slight had not been intentional, but it had still hurt him deeply. He hadn't minded letting her convince him of her affections. And, as it turns out, she is even more playful and passionate than he'd realized. His witch had been holding herself back for weeks, trying to protect her own heart by not growing attached. Now that she is being completely open, he's even more enamored with her.

She gives him a look of exasperation, but, at his faux innocent grin, the expression melts into adoration. She might pretend she's tough, but he seems to know how to reduce her to a kitten. Which is only fair, since she completely wrecks him in return. "I'll be home after lunch," she tells him, opening the door and stopping short, a small squeal of surprise leaving her mouth.

"Theodore, what the hell?!"

Nott is standing on the other side of the threshold, arm up and fist in the position to knock on the door that is no longer there between them. "Granger," he greets, unruffled by her shocked expression, then swivels his gaze to Draco. "I thought I might keep you busy while she's off making glamour potions or whatever it is she does at her little shop."

Hermione, Draco can tell, is thoroughly unimpressed. She starts to say something, mouth hanging open, then stops and shakes her head. "He's all yours," she informs his friend. "I'll be home around two."

"And then I'm all yours," Draco is quick to tell her, earning an exaggerated roll of his eyes from Theo but a parting grin from his girl.

Theo gives her a jaunty salute and walks into the room, closing the door behind him. "Merlin, you're completely besotted."

So perhaps Draco is staring at a closed door for a beat too long, grinning after Hermione, but he quickly schools that and raises a brow at his friend. "How's Potter?" he asks, pointed and bemused.

Theo smiles broadly in return. "Insatiable," he says, and Draco can tell he's rather proud of himself.

"So how did that happen, eh? You and the Golden Boy himself?"

Shrugging, Theo flops onto Granger's bed. "Mutual interest in hobbies. Convenient circumstances that often put us in the same room. A healthy appreciation of physical attributes." He makes a vague gesture to the door, indicating Hermione's departure. "You?"

Draco grins, thinking of late nights reading erotica in Granger's small bedroom, trapped in a room with her and not minding one bit. "Same," he says, and they pass a moment of deep understanding.

"So, Bill Weasley to the rescue?" Theo is pawing through the brick-a-brack on Hermione's nightstand, fiddling with the small clock that makes quite the irritating ruckus each morning at seven thirty-five sharp.

First thing he's going to do when he gets out is smash the fucking thing and curl up with his witch for a lie in.

Correction: second thing. First, he's fucking her into the mattress. Then, the smashing and the lie in.

"So they tell me," Draco says, trying to sound nonchalant. He is trying not to pin too many hopes on the eldest Weasley, lest he find himself disappointed. Unfortunately, he doesn't really have any better ideas either. Severus seems to think it's a good step, so Draco has packed away his doubts and his prejudice against the most infamous red-heads in England, and is waiting patiently until Friday.

"Well, if not him, Granger will figure it out. To hear Potter tell it, that witch hasn't met a question she can't answer. I'm lucky he fancies blokes, or I might have lost him to that swot before we even got started."

Draco snickers at that, but can't argue. Where he once might have judged her haughty intellect with irritation, now he is flush with the fondness he feels for her; an ocean, constantly lapping at his heart. "He can't have her," he says. "She's already spoken for."

A look of concern flashes over Theo's face, and Draco is immediately on alert. "What?"

With a grimace that indicates feeling unsure, his friend answers, "Nothing, really. Potter mentioned… Well, I'm just surprised you're this cozy. He said she was moping about; that you wouldn't speak to her."

Draco doesn't particularly care for drudging up how he was feeling only the day before. He's aware that his relationship as he sees it, is much fresher to his lover than it is to him. He had weeks on her, accepting his feelings and letting them take root. But, while her feelings may be new, he doesn't doubt her sincerity. If anything, he has faith that's she's enough of a Gryffindor that 'genuine' is her default setting.

"A misunderstanding," he tells him with a sniff. "Nothing to be concerned over."

Theo grins once again and agrees, "I wasn't. You were always unnaturally skilled at catching the eye of a witch. I think it's the hair."

"So did you just drop by to tell me how handsome I am? Should I tell Potter you're straying?" he needles with a grin.

"No, wanker, I came to keep you company. Because I'm a good friend," Theo adds with smug self-assurance.

"You're a prick, but it is awfully dull in here during the day."

"How do you and Granger pass the time?"

Draco opens his mouth to respond, but Theo interrupts quickly. "Let's pretend I didn't ask that in such an obvious and clearly not-thought-out way." He adjusts his shoulders to try his question again. "What completely innocent and platonic past times might we engage in to help relieve your boredom?"

Looking around his room, Draco considers the question. He and Granger spend a lot of time in his favouite way, which is inappropriate for his relationship to Theo. They also spend a large amount of time engaged in conversation over literature, philosophy, and theory on various subject. Theo, though an intelligent wizard, was never what Draco might call a 'reader'.

"I have a deck of playing cards on this side," he finally says. "If you can rustle up your own, perhaps we could play a game?"

"Strip poker?"

"You're such a complete knob," Draco says with as much fondness as one can say such a thing.

Theo just grins and moves to leave the room. "Right back. I'm sure Potter has some." A beat as he opens the door and then, "Oi, Potter! Where's your strip poker cards?"

Draco hears a muffled and agitated reply as Theo chuckles out the door. Barring his immediate situation of being trapped in a hidden room, possibly until he dies, it's a very good day to be alive.

XXX

Friday is a dreary, dismal, rainy day, but Hermione couldn't be happier. She wakes to the sound of rain softly pelting the window and stretches, warm and comfortable in her bed. It could only be improved with a solid wizard lying beside her, but she has learned to take what she can get.

And, during the last couple of days, she's taken quite a lot.

The rift that formed between her and Draco, followed by their reconciliation, has renewed the enthusiasm of their relationship. He exhausted her just the night before, hardly allowing her a break between each session of play. He is both commanding, yet begs for her; taking control but asking her for the privilege.

"Good morning, pretty witch."

She glances over to find Draco relaxing on his sofa, arm on the rest and one leg bent to perch beside him. His hair is tousled and his shirt is still undone. He's just fucking delicious.

She hums at him, content. "Good morning. You seem rested," she comments with a smile.

"My lover wore me out. Sent me into a virtual coma," he tells her. "I slept quite soundly."

Sitting up, she swings her legs to one side, feet landing on the floor. "Today's the day," she says, grinning even wider than before. "Bill should be here before noon."

Hermione has grabbed her robe so she can trudge downstairs for some coffee, and is fidgeting with the tie when she realizes he's gone quiet. Looking up, he's staring past her, seeing nothing. "Hey," she tries softly, "this will work. Bill's the best there is. Youngest curse breaker to head up the department at Gringotts. If there's a way to break this, he will find it."

"And if there isn't?" Hermione crinkles her brow, and Draco continues, "A way to break it… What if there simply isn't a way?"

"There will be," she assures him.

XXXX

"I don't think there's a curse to break."

Hermione is looking at Bill from across the parlour, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

It's well past nine that evening, and the Weasley son has been at Grimmauld for over ten hours. After extensive testing, enchantments, spells, and data collection, he had asked Hermione for a cup of tea to go over his findings.

What she finds, however, is that tea was an excuse. Truthfully, he did not want to have this conversation with Draco listening. The Weasleys and the Malfoys may have a feud that goes generations back, but he's not a sadist.

"I've looked at it was multiple angles. I don't think I can break a curse, because that's not what this is. It's… more primal than that. And, not for nothing, but curses are, by their nature, meant to harm. He may be trapped in the portrait, but this wasn't done with malicious intent. The magic is… of a questionable nature… but not necessarily dark." He considers a moment before commenting, "Though the Ministry has their own legal standards on that."

Harry is sitting across the room with Nott by his side. They are not being openly affectionate, still wary of bringing in too many on their secret, but, to Hermione, there definitely seems to be a claim that has been staked.

She's just not sure which wizard made it.

Theo leans forward, forearms on his knees. "If it's not a curse, it's not dark, and Flitwick didn't think it was a charm, what the fuck is it? There must be some way to get him out. Protections aren't meant to be a death sentence later."

"No," Bill agrees, "they're not. I might want to bring in a colleague, if you'd be willing, to go over my findings."

"Anything," Hermione shoves her way back into the conversation. "Do what you have to. Though… I'd prefer is the particulars are kept discreet. Unless it's necessary, can we keep Draco's identity between us?"

Bill agrees with a nod. "There is a level of client privilege. Curses are a very personal business in most cases."

There is a feeling of mild relief, but then Hermione allows the disappointment to wash through her. She looks away and murmurs, "How in Merlin's name am I to tell him this?"

"There's nothing definitive yet," Bill answers back sympathetically. "I don't have any real answers. I don't think it's a curse, but until I know more, that doesn't mean anything. Give me the weekend before we crush the poor lad."

They bid Bill a good evening, and the three (suddenly much closer) friends remain in the parlour, very little conversation passing between them.

Finally, Theo asks, "What about the Department of Mysteries? You've opened the investigation with the Auror office… can you get the Unspeakables involved?"

Harry considers it. "I'll see if this is in their wheelhouse. The problem with that bloody department, is they're so damn secretive, I don't know precisely what they even do."

Theo looks at Hermione then, and she sees a bit of desperation on his normally carefree face. "You went to Flitwick," he begins, "but you didn't think Draco was alive then. What if you went back? He didn't think it was a charmed portrait but…"

Even as he asks, she can tell in his expression that he knows it seems unlikely. Surely, if Flitwick had known anything of this type of magic, he would have considered it when Hermione told him it was a cursed portrait. They failed in France, now their visit with Bill has been equally unsatisfying. She can see that Theodore Nott doesn't have many friends left, and he's grasping at straws to save this one.

"I'll owl him in the morning," she agrees readily. And she will. Because she's equally desperate to save the wizard currently waiting for her in her room, He is, no doubt, excited by the possibilities her appearance will bring, and she doesn't look forward to disappointing him.

In her room, minutes later, Hermione tries to give her companion a warm smile.

He sees right through her. "That bad, eh? Do they need the soul of my first born? A kidney?" he quips, which she has learned over the past weeks is when he's at his lowest, when he's feeling the most defensive.

Or when he's being playful, but this isn't one of those times.

She tries to laugh, but it's a strange sound to her own ears. She won't lie to him. She's done enough of that the last few weeks, so she tells him as much information as she has. "No, he just… he isn't sure. He has a lot of information he gathered today, but he needs to consult some others in his field."

Draco frowns. "I thought he was the best. Youngest at Gringotts and all that rot."

"He is, but even professionals need help on tough puzzles."

The expression on his face only deepens, and Hermione digs a little deeper, trying to offer him comfort. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound down. I'm just disappointed it seems it will take longer than we thought. I was planning to have you in my bed tonight." The smile she offers now is laced with intimate promise, and it seems to work minutely, his expression softening.

"So was I. Have I ever mentioned, my lovely Granger, how tired I am of sleeping on this blasted sofa? My legs don't even fit."

She giggles, fully aware of how his long frame is always scrunched to accommodate the size of the furniture in question. It's quite a nice sofa, actually. Larger than most with deep cushions, but still a sofa nonetheless.

Locking him in with a heated gaze, Hermione slowly lift her sundress over her head, leaving herself in her knickers and a pair of red pumps, arching her back and nibbling her lower lip between her perfect white teeth.

"Holy fuck…" She does so love when she gets that response out of him.

"When you're out," she says softly, "here, with me, you'll have to share a bed. I hope that's not going to be a problem?" She seats herself on the mattress in question, making a show of crossing one leg over the other and letting her pump swing precariously on her toes.

"No complaints, love. Definitely not a problem. Were you always this insatiable?"

Hermione shakes her head, curls bouncing at her shoulders. "This is definitely specific to you," she tells him.

Licking his lips, Draco leans back on his too small sofa and lays his palm across his trousers, firmly tracing his outline. "Are you wet already, Granger?" At her nod, he prompts, "Show me."

Sliding her knickers down her legs, she makes a point of leaving the pumps on her feet. When she shimmies back on the bed to rest against a pile of pillows and bring her legs up beside her, the heels make it that much easier to keep her legs perched and give Draco a show.

"Fuck. Can you imagine the things I'm going to do to you?" Without being prompted, he unzips his trousers and pushes them down his legs, taking himself in his hand.

"I can," she answers. "So many things I don't know where to start." She traces two fingers down the curve of her lower lips, teasing herself as much as him.

"That's it," he whispers, and, Dear Gods, she loves that deep timber of his voice as he encourages her. "Just for me… pet yourself, just for me. Show me how you like it. Let me see how you want me to touch you."

She slides two fingers inside with no preamble, then quickly makes it three. Her instinct is to close her eyes, lay her head back and get lost, but she doesn't want to take her eyes off Draco, watching his large hand wrapped around his cock, the head disappearing with each upward stroke.

"Buggering fuck, I'm not going to last two minutes the first time with you." His eyes rake over her, down to watch her slender fingers vanish inside her, then back up to her face, gaze locked into hers.

She groans and very much wants to agree with the sentiment, but is having trouble forming words just then. She feels she was more vocal before, when he wasn't real. Now, she wants him even more than she had, but is finding her bravado diminished. "Gods, you're gorgeous," she manages, and, fuck, if she doesn't mean it. "I want to see…" she starts, adding pressure to her clit and approaching climax quickly under her own expert touch. "I want to see you come, Draco, please..."

"I love when you beg for me," he growls out. "But, fuck, it's not necessary… anything you want… anything… anything you fucking… hnnh…" His words deteriorate as he reaches his orgasm, seeming to surprise him with the intensity and speed of it.

Hermione pushes herself to join him, imagining his hand stuffed inside her slit and his lips on her throat. The visual does the trick, and she mewls as the tremors drag her under.

Without speaking, they both settle themselves down into the respective beds, staring at each other across a great divide, but feeling closer than they've ever been. Hermione dims the lights in her room, and Draco does the same from within the confines of his portrait, but they leave enough of a faint glow to make out each other's silhouette.

Hermione's eyes are heavy, and she begins to let herself over into sleep, lids blinking lethargically and her breaths evening out into a sluggish rhythm.

"I wish I could be with you right now," she finally says into the still of the room, murmuring her wish like a prayer.

"Me too," he answers back, then adds, "Your bed looks much more comfortable."

Hermione laughs softly. "Back to that are we? And here I thought it was the pleasure of my company you were hoping for."

He pauses only briefly before he replies. "There is literally nothing I want more in this world right now than to touch you, Granger," he offers quietly into the darkness. "To lie beside you."

"You will," she answers back, pouring sincerity into her words, almost enough of it to fool even herself this time.

Tomorrow, she will owl Flitwick once again. She thought she might also try the healers at St. Mungo's, adept as they are with the magic that affects the physical form. It's a long shot, she knows, but she is very friendly with the chief of staff, and at this point she will try anything.

Azkaban? She wonders if some of the purebloods from the wrong side of the war would know anything about the spell the Malfoys used. Perhaps Kingsley, from a pure wizarding family himself, could also be a source in that vein. It's much more appealing to imagine going to her fellow Order member than to trudge into a wizarding prison and ask someone like Reginald Parkinson if he wouldn't please help her to save the youngest Malfoy (whose family, by the way, betrayed the Dark Lord at the last moment and helped Harry Potter win the war). She has a feeling that most of those currently rotting in a prison cell would be delighted to find out Draco has one of his own.

Her limp and contented state begins to slip away, a buzz of stress and worry stealing the moment from her grasp. When she looks back toward Draco, he seems to have fallen asleep.

She watches him for a while, enchanted by his innocent countenance while he rests. He's a beautiful man. She feels equally fortunate that the fates brought him into her life, as she is cursing the circumstances that have given him so much pain. The lonely months he lived, the heartbreak learning of his parents' deaths… Then, some witch he was trying to give his heart to, trampled on his tender emotions.

She'll make it up to him, she thinks. She'll save his life, as it were, then show him how much he means to her (which seems to be increasing by the day). Settling back in and trying to stop the constant whirring of her overactive mind, Hermione is finally able to rest, confident in her plans to explore every possibility until Draco is free.

If there's a way in to a painting, logic follows there is a way out.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I didn't do review replies on this yet, but I felt I've made you wait long enough for an update!

"Harry! What is this?!"

Hermione is storming through Grimmauld with today's copy of The Daily Prophet in her hand, the lead story screaming 'Confirmed Death Eater Under Alleged Auror Protection!' When she finds her friend, he is in the kitchen with a cup of tea, pouring over some parchments that look rather official.

She waves the paper in his face. "Well?"

Giving it a quick glance, he finally says, "Took them longer than I expected."

She gapes at him. It's been mere days since Bill consulted them on Malfoy's situation. In the meantime, Hermione had another conversation with Flitwick. While at Hogwarts, she had also asked Minerva if she had ever heard of something like a well-intentioned oubliette. The woman had pursed her lips and looked down her nose in a way that made Hermione think, knowing the practice to be questionable in legal terms, that it would be best she not give any specific information. "I can't imagine why a witch of your standing would be interested in one of those primitive traditions, dark natured as they are. The specifics have been lost to the ages for a reason."

Hermione managed to escape, letting her old professor believe it was nothing more than vague curiosity.

Flitwick had been more intrigued than judgmental, but, not being a pureblood, had virtually no knowledge on the subject, only a loose understanding that old families had various rites and traditions that offered protection, but that the practices had mostly been lost generations before, the Ministry as it currently stands having sanitized much of the base magic required.

Hermione had left, disappointed, returning to her room at Grimmauld to lick her wounds.

Draco spent the evening distracting her, asking her to imagine licking other things, and promising the favor would be returned tenfold in the future.

Harry had not found much better results when he began poking around at the Ministry. He did manage to discover just how illegal this type of magic is, luckily before involving too many other officials or agents.

"I've opened it as a vague search and rescue," he had told her, "without admitting everything we know. Only that we've heard from Malfoy through an anonymous source, but we can't find his location."

It seems Harry might have a little Slytherin in him as well. He hadn't appreciated Hermione's corresponding joke about Theo when she said that.

"What do you mean, took them longer… Did you expect this to be leaked? Isn't there… I don't know…" Hermione waves her hands around emphatically, "confidentiality?!"

He has the audacity to shrug at her. "They don't really know anything. A Death Eater, identity unconfirmed, might be under Auror watch. It's an unsubstantiated gossip piece written by Skeeter. The public only half pays attention to her these days."

"On the front page?" she asks with a lift of her brow.

"Look," he says with a sigh, "this is pretty standard. Someone gives her some basic information, most of it public record anyway, and she sensationalizes it. Especially when my name is attached. I think she's printed something about my last six cases."

"So you have a leak in your department," she spits back, very angry at this phantom agent in question. "If I find out who it is-"

"Public record, Hermione. They're not really leaking… just offering the most interesting information. Admittedly, they do so before anyone would think to look for it, so it certainly helps her stay no more than one step behind me."

She starts to argue, and Harry puts down his cup. "There's nothing in the article about the portrait. I read the whole thing, and the only people who might put something together from this are those of us who know about the situation. You know the Weasleys won't betray our confidence. Theo certainly won't."

"Ron might. Simply out of spite," she accuses.

"I've already talked to him," he tries to reassure her. "He won't say anything. None of the family will."

She pauses a moment. She's been so busy, so distracted, she realizes she hasn't spoken to her former lover in a few weeks. Living in a virtual bubble, she'd forgotten to consider how he might respond. "How did Ron take it? I mean, about Draco?"

Harry laughs, asking around a lopsided grin, "You mean that he was, in fact, watching you sleep?"

"Amongst other things," She confirms with a blush.

"Merlin, Hermione, I didn't tell him that," he says with a wider grin. "He was, for lack of a better word, put-out, but he's not a monster. He won't do anything that would actually hurt Malfoy, I promise.

Hermione is worrying her lip, nibbling it raw as she listens. "When we get him out," she says, unwilling to ever use the word 'if', "I don't know what they'd do to him if he was caught with forbidden magic, even if he didn't cast it. He'll have a hard enough time with the mark on his arm…"

Harry shakes his head at her. "He'll be fine. The Wizengamot has already cleared him of known Death Eater activities in light of Snape's testimony. As soon as he's out, we will run through the channels to have his name reinstated and his estate returned to him. I promise, I won't spend all his money," he adds with a cheeky grin, and Hermione laughs a little in spite of herself.

Harry probably thinks he's alleviated her fears, but she isn't quite finished. "What if someone comes for him? A pureblood who puts the pieces together? A supporter that slipped through the legal cracks. A family member of a victim during the war… He will have a lot of enemies now."

"That's quite a leap, Hermione. A lot of 'ifs'."

She answers with a little more than a disgruntled look and goes about making herself a cup of tea to match Harry's. When it's ready, she joins him, just staring absentmindedly across the room as he returns to his parchments.

"What about Kingsley," she finally asks. "Can we… do you think we could trust him? With more specific information?"

Her friend considers, eyes searching the ceiling. "I'm not sure. I mean, he was a member of the Order, and I trust him with my life… but I'm not sure I trust him with the promise of political capital. Discovering a forbidden rite, connecting it with one of the old families… it might be too tempting for him. But he trusts me, and he's given me a long leash to follow leads from here."

She nods, completely understanding the sentiment about Kingley's ambitions, and agreeing wholeheartedly. "I'd hoped Theo would know more." They had all been surprised by how little the Nott family knew about such traditions. Theo explained his family, while old and wealthy, had begun moving away from traditional magics a few generations back.

"My great grandmother was oddly progressive," he'd told them with a chuckle. "She was the only witch in her social circle that favoured trousers and preferred Halloween to Samhain." Though Nott Sr. had made efforts to bring his family back to old-world glory, tying himself to Tom Riddle's purist ideals, many of the family traditions had already been lost well before his birth.

Returning her gaze to the copy of the Prophet that Harry has set aside, Hermione ponders aloud, "Do you think she'll keep pushing the story? Digging around for more?"

"Not likely. She never has before. Usually she writes one story, tries to get me to comment, I send her owls back with hexed parchments that turn her fingers various colors, and she leaves me alone again."

Hermione giggles and mock chastises, "You're supposed to be a professional."

With a smirk that would make Draco proud, he counters, "Well, what am I to do then? Trap her in a jar for a month? Yes," he answers himself facetiously, "that's far less dramatic."

She smirks back in return.

After a while, half her tea drained, she speaks again. "Do you think Draco is safe, though? Really?"

Harry looks up at her and frowns a little. "You're really worried about him, aren't you?"

She bounces one shoulder so minutely it could hardly even be considered a shrug and glances away. Hermione is not accustomed to being the emotional one these days. At Hogwarts, her adolescent hormones on high alert, and her heart breaking almost daily under the strain of unrequited love, she'd had her occasional breaks. Since the war, however, Hermione has been more confident, more self-assured, than ever.

It must be love, she thinks wryly, surprising even herself with a relatively bold notion at this juncture.

"I just recognize the danger he might be in. Which, by the way," she throws in quickly, "could put us in danger, Mr. Auror. I'm sure you've thought along those lines."

"We're safe as houses, if that's your concern. The warding in this place is stronger than it was when it was an Order property."

She doesn't immediately respond, still thinking about Draco, and Harry offers, "If you're concerned, you could pop by the Ministry tomorrow. File an official report. That would open you to Auror protection."

Hermione frowns. "You mean surveillance." She has not quite forgiven the Ministry for its wishy-washy loyalty to the light during the war.

"No, I mean protection. From me, even. You bloody live here, this would just make it official. Maybe I'll get lucky and they will assign me to tail you. I could just hang around here all day."

She laughs at that. "You know I'm not actually afraid, right? It was more of a theoretical possibility."

He smiles and goes back to his parchments. "Well, theoretically speaking, being given the case of protecting my own house sounds bloody ideal."

"You know," she says slowly, "maybe I will file the protection request. Just a precaution, but what if something does happen? I know how slow the Ministry can work through normal channels."

"Come in tomorrow afternoon. I'll take you to lunch."

She agrees, eventually, not requiring much more prompting, and then retires for the night. Hermione doesn't mention anything about the paper or the protection order. It wouldn't do to panic poor Draco. He certainly has enough to worry about as is.

"What are those," Hermione asks.

It's just past twelve, and she has arrived at the Auror offices as planned. Upon entering, she sees that Harry's desk is littered with deliveries, various owls hanging out in little clusters, as he frowns over the pile.

"Concerned citizens," he grumbles back. "Requests to confirm if a Death Eater is being protected, demands to see them tried for crimes since they 'obviously' fled the country, pureblood families promising their financial assistance, threats to my department and to myself for harboring a fugitive, and one very long letter from Vincent Crabbe's father asking if it is Draco and promising retribution."

She's stunned. The man was able to guess? Then again, the number of unaccounted Death Eaters has dwindled dramatically in the past few months. He only has to be a modicum brighter than his dim offspring (may God have mercy on his black soul), to have deduced who Harry might be protecting.

She doesn't bother commenting on any of that, but asks, "They let Crabbe send mail from Azkaban?"

"Remember that letter you wrote in fifth year to the Ministry about cruel and unusual punishment? They put some changes into effect as soon as the war was over. It wasn't made public, of course. They were afraid there would be an outcry from grieving families if they heard the prison was in any way comfortable, but the Wizengamot saw it as a win-win: they could, if pressed, name drop a war hero, that being you, while simultaneously softening the blow to the purebloods who had filled their coffers for so long."

"Wow... I mean that's... I'm not sure how to feel about that."

"Conflicted," he offers. "As I'm sure anyone would be who has to weigh results against reasons."

"So," she says, taking them back to her original point, "this is all in response to that stupid article, I suppose?" Hermione starts thumbing through the parchments, fully aware it's probably against the rules to read Auror mail. But then, Hermione always had a little trouble following rules when she had a vested interest in breaking them.

"Mostly, yes. We receive a few in general. Notes here or there regarding this missing Death Eater or that. The flood gates definitely opened up. I must say, this is… more than usual."

She hums in reply, continuing to browse the mess. "What's this one?"

One parchment seems to stand out from the rest. She couldn't have even articulated as to why. The color is virtually the same, if a little more yellowed, the edges are crisp and perfectly folded, and the wax seal is nothing out of the ordinary. Except, perhaps, that it is unmarked. Most of the seals tout an initial or a crest. This one is unembellished, a thick red smear with a simple square pressed into its center.

Harry comes around the desk to stand beside her and takes the letter into his hands, turning it over to study it. "I haven't opened them all yet..." he comments. That much is obvious by the large amount of unbroken seals. He slides his fingertips beneath the fold and breaks the hold of the wax.

His eyes scan the page and his brow furrows. "It doesn't say much." Another pause, and then, "It asks if we have the resources we need, but something about the wording... I feel like the author knows something. More than he should…"

"Or she," Hermione corrects, always looking for ways to upend the patriarchy.

"Doesn't feel like a she," he mumbles, barely even paying attention to his own conversation. That sounds familiar. She's reminded of his insistence during sixth year that the half-blood prince couldn't be a witch. Merlin, had she hated being wrong…

He's a little lost in his own head, and Hermione has watched him like this before. At Hogwarts, it was like pulling teeth (one of her favorite expressions since her DDS parents had said it with a lot more ironic pizzazz than most) to convince her friend to concentrate. However, when he does finally tuck in, he can be focused to the point of obsession.

After a moment, he blinks and puts the paper aside. "Not the first strange letter, and I'm sure not the last. Lunch then? We can file your request after. I think I'm even more in agreement that this is a good idea."

Hermione, suddenly realizing she is quite hungry, agrees readily, and they make their way to the muggle style coffee shop recently erected in the Atrium. It's never crowded, so many purebloods being unsure about the whirring machines and unique flavours, and they have a quiet lunch discussing their respective mornings.

Hermione doesn't ask any more about the correspondence that awaits her friend, but the thought is never far from her mind. Defensiveness at Crabbe and his ilk, and a little fear of the unknown from the final letter they discussed, has crept in and set up camp at the back of her mind. As soon as she read the Prophet article, she had become concerned that there may be a faction of witches or wizards who would seek to harm Draco. The large amount of messages she just witnessed serves to, not only support, but exacerbate her fears. She doesn't have much concern for her own safety, but then, she does tend to worry more about loved ones than she does about herself.

See Also: Her parents tucked somewhere in Australia, not even knowing who they are.

Harry walks Hermione to the Department of Physical and Magical Harm Prevention and stays with her while she completes the necessary forms. They have just finished, and Harry is escorting her to the floo, when she turns a corner and runs bodily into Cormac McLaggen.

He looks down at her, and his lip curls into a rather unwelcome smirk. "Hey, little witch. Looking for me?"

"Hello, Cormac," she answers stiffly, ignoring his playful question. "What are you doing here?"

He snorts at her, rather unbecomingly. "Working, of course. What about you? Tagging along with Potter? Was it 'bring your flatmate to work day' and I didn't get the memo?" Cormac laughs at his own little joke, and Hermione frowns.

"You work for the Ministry?"

"'Course I do. What did you imagine I was here for that time we… you know." He wriggles his eyebrows at her, and Hermione feels very much like she might retch. How in Merlin's name did he ever get her into bed? Christ, he's repugnant.

She does recall, however, that they had crossed paths in the Atrium once before. As she is having this little internal crisis, Cormac addresses Harry.

"Need any help with that little owl colony in your office, Potter?"

"I've got it just fine, thanks."

"Right. Bringing in your girl to help you sift through?" he asks, winking over at Hermione. She's pretty sure he couldn't be more unappealing right now.

"Hermione is a respected potioneer, McLaggen, not my Girl Friday."

"No, no, she's my Girl Friday," he says with a rather gross leer. "Maybe Saturday too, if I'm not too tired. Right, Princess?"

His appeal just plummeted.

"Well, this has been lovely, but I need to get back to the shop," she lies. "Thanks for everything, Harry. See you at home."

Without another word to Cormac, she makes her way out the door and straight back to Grimmauld, needing very much to wash the taste of that exchange from her mouth.

"You're early," Draco beams at her.

"Fuck, I missed you," she says with relief and exasperation as soon as she's through the door.

"Missed you too, Princess."

"Ew, no." Hermione wrinkles her nose. "Another pet name, if you please. Anything else."

He chuckles at her. "It's not the first time I've used it," he reminds her.

"Yes, but last time wasn't on the heels of Cormac the complete pillock McLaggen calling me the same."

Draco frowns. "You saw McLaggen?"

Hermione kick off her shoes into two different directions and flops down on the bed, flat on her back.

"He was at the Ministry. I just ran across him on my way out."

"The Ministry? What were you doing there?"

Oh, right. Hermione hadn't told Draco about the Prophet. She supposes now might be the time. "Harry suggested I file an official order requesting Auror involvement if anything of a questionable nature were to happen here. There was an article, you see, and then there were some threats-"

"Threats?! What the fuck, when were you going to tell me? Are you alright? Who's threatening you?"

She looks over to find he has stood from the sofa and is very close to the threshold that separates them. She smiles, a positively melted expression, touched by his concern. "Not toward me specifically. I'm fine, Draco."

"What was it then?"

She sighs and turns her eyes back toward the heavens, relaxing in the familiar comfort of her bed and basking in the presence of her lover. "The Prophet caught wind that Harry might be hiding a fugitive Death Eater. They didn't name you specifically. The story ran yesterday, and today the Auror office was flooded with owls. Some wanted your blood. Some wanted Harry's for hiding you. Some offered you support."

"Granger,…I never imagined I'd put you in a dangerous position," he says, regretful.

"You've not," she argues. "Honestly, I think Harry's being too overprotective." They stare at each other a moment; she smiling at him, and he frowning at her with obvious turmoil.

"If anything happens to you because of me, I don't think I could live with that."

"Dear Merlin, do you just get better by the day?" She grins at him. Draco has settled back onto his sofa, but the look of concern he is sending her way is very endearing. "So protective," she accuses with affection. "Would you duel for my honor?"

He picks up on the flirtation in her tone and smiles back. "I'd duel every wizard in Britain for you, Hermione."

It's been a trying day, short though it might have been, and Hermione is very ready to slip into bed and enjoy Draco's velvet voice for the evening. She is just about to suggest such a thing, a seductive question on the tip of her tongue, when he says, "What if you can't get me out?"

"We will, Draco. I'm sorry it's taking so long-"

"No," he interrupts. "I know you're trying, I just… Really… what if you can't? What if there is just no way, and I'm stuck in this room forever? What would… I mean, I'm sure, eventually, you might…"

She's more than aware of what he's afraid of. She can see the trepidation on his face, the idea that she might eventually just give up, move on with her life. Climbing out of her bed, she approaches the portrait and lays her palms against the canvas. On his side, Draco does the same. He lays his pale hands against what she images is the cool glass of a mirror that doesn't reflect. "I'm here with you," she promises. "I'm not going anywhere, and I won't abandon you. No matter how long this takes."

"Granger, you didn't even think I was real a month ago. You can't make promises like that."

"I absolutely can," she says stubbornly. "Don't play the martyr with me, Draco Malfoy," she warns, waggling one finger at him, the other hand resolutely laying against the image of his own. "We'll get you out. And then," she hooks her thumb back toward her room, "I'm going to ride you like a Hippogriff on that bed right there. Probably for a number of days straight."

He chuckles lightly. "I'm surprised you went for Hippogriff for that metaphor. Wouldn't broom be more standard?"

Hermione grins, and walks back toward the bed, already hitching up her skirt and absolutely planning to seduce him. "I don't ride brooms," she says cheekily, "but remind me to tell you about third year."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the wait and many thanks for those of you with me.

Days pass, weeks since their trip to France, and Hermione slips quite soundly into a routine. Severus becomes very engaged with The Great Malfoy Rescue, which, even though Bill's colleague does nothing to further their cause, manages to make everyone feel more secure. Perhaps because he was their professor, but there is a sense that the "adults" are helping (regardless of her age), and Hermione is grateful to him. To her, no matter her own years, he will always be, in part, the endlessly knowledgeable, nigh-unapproachable Professor Snape. She just refrains from saying so to his face.

Unless she's feeling a bit wicked, of course. Sometimes it makes her giggle to coax one of those pre-war scowls out of the man. You know, for old times' sake.

Draco's demeanor, also, has improved greatly, his old swagger coming back full force. But without the bigotry and hatred, the indoctrination and propaganda, his sneers become sexy crooked smiles. His arrogance turns into confidence.

They read together, but the topics begin to broaden. Not that she doesn't enjoy when he pulls out the, now slightly more battered copy, of Delta of Venus, but they also indulge in debates on potion theory, exchanges of favourite poetry, and share historical accounts they each find particularly engaging.

Their relationship, up until she had discovered the truth, had been passionate, almost romantic, but, in hindsight, painfully one sided. She had found, all those weeks ago, that she quite liked whoever Draco Malfoy had been, but never let herself become too invested in his philosophies, opinions, and dreams, ever trying not to form an unhealthy attachment to a dead man.

Now that she knows he's real? A real wizard, complete with the possibility of a future? Oh, now she wants to know everything. In turn, she is finally sharing herself with him openly.

After so many weeks of skirting around any real insights into who she is, Hermione has finally told Draco about her parents and the lengths to which she went to protect them from Tom Riddle's war. She has shared details about the time spent with the boys on the run, and the part they played during Draco's final year at Hogwarts. They discussed the manor, both reliving what they felt that awful night that the trio was marched into Draco's home, marked for death. Hermione had been so afraid that Harry would be killed, leaving the rest of the wizarding world with no hope for peace. Draco, she learned, had been equally terrified of almost exactly that.

"It was fucking awful, Granger," he'd said. "Living with him, his Death Eaters… they were all monsters. It was like a nightmare. I was sincerely rooting for Potter by that point."

She'd thanked him then, for his very small part that might have just made all the difference. "If you had told them," she had whispered, "if you confirmed who we were, we all would have died. I don't know if you realized at the time, but you saved us all." She had completed the thought with another promise to free him; to save him right back.

Theo visits often, as well, and Hermione can tell it makes Draco happy (even though all they seem to do is snark at each other). His relationship with Harry finally in the open, Theo has no reason not to turn up on an almost daily basis. More often than not, by the time Hermione emerges in the morning, he's in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hand, hair disheveled and dressed in sleep pants, shirt not required.

"Good morning, Theo."

He looks up and grins at her. "You know what I like about you, Granger? You don't care what people think. I love how you just own who you are." He is giving her hair a very pointed look. Hermione doesn't need a mirror to get the joke. She hasn't even tried to tame her curls yet. Wrapped hastily in a robe and in desperate need of caffeine, she throws him a 'v' and makes her way to the cupboard as he chuckles.

"You're not really a morning person, are you?"

She grumbles at him as she pours her own mug. In her head, it's an eloquent response, but her mouth doesn't seem to have the same capacity as her brain at this early hour.

"Off to the shop, then?" he asks with barely-there interest.

Somewhere, her mind registers this as polite small talk. The early hour makes it hard to participate in these exchanges. Bracing herself with a sigh, she turns on a smile, with much effort, and engages. "Yes. Severus is visiting a professor at Durmstrang who specializes in old rites, and he will be taking Miss Clearwater to assist."

He raises an eyebrow and asks, "Assist?" complete with air quotes.

"Well," she mutters against the rim of her own mug, "I'm sure she will assist him with something."

He laughs again, the nature of her partner's relationship with their front of house manager apparently not much of a secret any more.

"And you," she asks with just about the same disinterest he paid her. "Do you have big plans today?"

"Oh, yes. A full schedule of independent wealth, self-reflection, and, only if I have time, mind you, a bit of pampering."

"Of course," she agrees, feigning deep sincerity, "only if you have time."

He lets her comment pass for a moment, but then corrects, "Actually, I'm… I've made an appointment." A hesitation, and then, "There was an opportunity to see my father."

That surprises her. "Your father? I didn't think you spoke."

He shrugs at her, but she sees a tension that wasn't there before, his carefree attitude suddenly more mask than the make of the man. "We don't. His visitation schedule is almost nonexistent, and I really don't have anything to say to him. But… I mean, he was a bastard, but he was friends with Lucius to some degree."

"You think he might know about the portrait?" She perks up, hope being a far stronger drug than caffeine.

"Maybe," he shrugs again, "maybe not. But it's worth a try, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," she agrees without pause, "definitely worth a try." Somehow she knows this means more than he's saying. He hasn't visited the man in over a year, but for Draco, he's willing. She's pretty sure, from their limited interaction, Theo would go to nearly any length for his fellow Slytherin.

Hermione is starting to very much understand why that is.

Unfortunately, they find out later, Nott Senior has no information on the portrait. Returning to Grimmauld a little less hopeful, a little less shiny, Theo tells Hermione and Harry, clustered around their eat-in kitchen table, that the man was of no help whatsoever. If anything, he reports, his father is mostly just put out that Lucius hadn't shared with his "friends" the way they might all escape from the battle. He had also seemed baffled that Lucius allowed Draco to use the rare and unique escape plan, rather than himself. He also assures his son that he bears Draco no ill-will and will not reveal the Death Eater's identity.

"Not that I am exactly flush with visitors," the man had told his son with a pointed look. Theo offered a monthly visit in exchange for silence.

Hermione is heartened by the one detail in particular regarding the Malfoys. If he used this rare escape for Draco, perhaps the cold and stoic Lucius Malfoy had loved his son more than any of them knew. Back in her room, she tells Draco as much, and, though he snorts and says he doubts it, Hermione catches a look in his eye very briefly. He seems, though disbelieving, to fancy the idea in theory.

"We'll find it," Hermione tells him that night. "We'll find the way to get you out. Severus has another consultation, this time with the Charms professor at Beauxbatons."

Draco nods and agrees, "I know. In the meantime, are you ready for bed?" He wriggles his eyebrows at her, and Hermione allows a grin to crawl very slowly onto her face.

"Oh, Gods, yes."

"Where the fuck…" Draco hesitates, then finishes, mumbling, "My apple's gone."

Hermione has exactly fifteen minutes to find her trainers, floo to Diagon, and open the shop. She's rummaging around the tote of shoes in her closet when she hears Draco speaking softly from his portrait.

"Hmm?" She hums absentmindedly, inviting him to clarify.

"My apple. It's not in the bowl."

She takes a moment to glance back, finding the bowl of fruit, and gaze landing easily on at least two apples amongst the lush choices. She's never really pondered on it before, but it is quite a luxurious bowl of fruit. "There's one right there."

"No, Granger, the green one."

Hermione stops what she's doing now and focuses her attention on Draco. "What do you mean?"

He's frustrated, and he pinches the bridge of his nose before clearly explaining, maybe a bit more slowly (read: condescending) than Hermione thinks is necessary. "There is always a green one in the bowl. Two red, one green. But now, there's only red."

She frowns and steps closer. "So there's always two red," she confirms, spying them and taking count, "and you still have two… but the single green is gone?"

He nods and continues searching around; looking beneath furnishings and scanning the room.

"How often do you eat that one?" she asks, not liking the puzzle she's putting together.

"Every morning and usually before I go to sleep. I had it last night, but it's always been back by morning."

"And the rest? The red apples? Grapes? Anything else you eat daily?"

She watches Draco as he considers her question. "The oranges, I suppose? One or two of them? I don't know. I never really thought about it."

"Draco…" Hermione's eyes glance about the room, her mind spinning. "Magic… can't make something from nothing. Gamp's laws… Your room: It must create what you need from what's there. Like… a magical ecosystem. I can't believe I hadn't thought about this…"

Hermione feels stupid, to say the least. All these weeks, she was acting as if Draco could live in his little room forever. But there are limits to everything, magic included. The food he eats…

"Oh, Gods, Draco, your air supply. Everything… How long will it…? I need to see Severus."

She grabs her jacket and moves to bolt from the room.

"Granger, wait. What the fuck?!"

"I need to go. I'm sorry. I think we might not have as much time as we thought. Just… I'll be back, Draco. I promise."

She leaves before he can respond and flies down the stairs of Grimmauld Place. Severus. She needs to speak with Severus.

"Spinner's End Severus Snape residence," she yells at the floo, the powder still barely reaching the flames before she lets the panic drive her forward.

"Miss Granger, what-"

"Severus! His food is disappearing!"

Hermione is brushing soot off her clothes, a bit frantically, as she straightens up in the rather dark living room that belongs to her partner. She's only been in his home on a handful of occasions, close as they've become. She thinks he might be ashamed of where he lives.

That shame doesn't seem to have carried over to Penelope, however, who is curled up on the couch in a sloppily buttoned man's shirt with her hands curled around a mug of tea. It occurs to Hermione just then that their Miss Clearwater is also not aware of Draco Malfoy's current circumstances. At least, she doesn't think she is. Then again, Hermione also hadn't thought the other woman would be intimately familiar with the insides of Snape's trousers, but has been since proven wrong.

"Mister Malfoy?" She loves how quick Severus is on the uptake, though her garbled, panicked announcement had been unclear at best.

"Yes. The food in the room, it usually reappears. Most of it's there but… there's an item missing."

Severus frowns, eyes squinting as he considers. "Is he sure?"

She nods in return, then lands a significant look, albeit briefly, on Penelope.

Snape notices, glances quickly behind him, then levelling Hermione with his onyx gaze. "You don't imagine I did not share the situation with her?"

Shrugging, Hermione blushes a little. "I wasn't sure."

"Is Malfoy in danger, then?"

Both partners look at the witch on the couch. She has adjusted herself, trying to pull the tails of Severus' shirt more modestly down her thighs.

"I'm not certain," Hermione admits. "I mean, beyond the obvious that he's trapped in some unplottable, unreachable hell…"

A grandfather clock, weathered and ancient, creaks its arms into place, and sounds the hour.

With a raised brow, Snape asks, "Were you to be opening the shop today?"

She huffs at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well I got a little distracted when I realized Draco might bloody well starve to death!"

Her partner sighs and swipes his robes off a coat stand in the corner. "Penelope, I do apologize." Hermione is jarred by his use of her first name. She's logically aware he probably should be on a first name basis, since he's fucking the woman, but it's jarring nonetheless. "It appears our day has an unforeseen change of plans."

Smiling softly, Penelope rises from the sofa and makes for the room located behind where she was sitting. She snags her trousers from the back of a fireside on her way. "I'll just go open the shop," she offers. "You two can take ferret duty."

"Thank you, love," Severus offers.

Hermione blinks, feeling like she woke up in a different life today.

"Let us go visit Mister Malfoy, then," he suggests, already approaching the floo.

When they re-emerge in Harry's parlour, Snape makes his way to Hermione's room without invitation or preamble. "Did you imagine the magic that sustains him would last forever?"

"Well… no. I mean, had I thought about it, of course not."

"Yet the implication is that you did not think of it," he notes, snide as ever.

Arse.

He sweeps into her room in his usual billow of robes. "Mister Malfoy, I understand your supplies have noticeably dwindled."

Draco looks up from the book in his lap, then quickly sets it aside. He stands and points to the offending bowl. "My apple is gone."

"There are two more," Severus notes, much as Hermione had.

"But I had a green one!"

"Entitled as ever," Draco's godfather mumbles as he inspects the scene. The room is much as it ever has been. Draco's books line the shelves, a blanket is tossed carelessly over the arm of the sofa, the remaining fruit looking as fresh and plentiful as ever. By all accounts, there is virtually no change.

"Will it all start to disappear now?" Draco asks Severus, suddenly looking a bit fearful.

The older wizard nods and replies, not completely unkindly, "I believe it will, yes. Not immediately, but we seem to have reason to be more aggressive in our search."

Severus straightens, abandoning his inspection of the portrait and turning back to Hermione. "I believe, transfiguration being her specialty, I will postpone my trip to France in favour of a consultation with Minerva."

Hermione grimaces at that. "I don't know if that's a good idea." At merely a lift of his eyebrow, she explains, "I… hinted at the situation when I spoke to Professor Flitwick. She didn't seem terribly….open. Given the… legal ramifications, that is."

Her partner has the lack of grace to snort at her. "That woman is open to very little, but she owes me more favours than she would care to admit." He looks at Draco then. "I will return shortly. Do try not to engage in anything untoward lest I stumble upon it."

He offers a wink as he sweeps back out the door, leaving Draco stunned in his wake. "Did he just…?"

Grimacing, Hermione nods in answer, then explains, "I've gotten to know him really well, actually. He's much different than I would have imagined."

They are both quiet then, lost in their own thoughts. When Draco speaks again, any levity they may have found is gone. "What now?" he inquires softly.

She shakes her head. "I don't know. We've… Merlin, Draco, we tried the Aurors, Hogwarts, the Department of Mysteries, your family's properties… What am I missing?" She trails off, talking mostly to herself.

"Well, on the bright side, I suppose I don't have to imagine being trapped here forever," he tries, offering a very questionable bright side.

"That doesn't help, you know." She gives him a scathing look, and he has the ever-present nerve to chuckle at her.

"It does, actually. I was afraid I'd hold you down forever. I did some thinking while you were fetching my godfather. If I ate that apple twice each day and it's gone, and I've been trapped here about fifteen months, then I figure anything I eat once a day will last about seven more months. Potentially."

"Stop it," she says quietly, and he doesn't seem to hear.

"The air I breathe, though? That's harder to quantify. There's a fern over in the corner," he gestures where Hermione can't see. "I wonder how much that offsets my oxygen use."

"Draco, please…"

"But, honestly, it's probably the water that will do me in. I have the carafe of potable water, of course. Not sure about what's available from the sink in the en suite, but a wizard can only survive a few days without water-"

"My God, will you stop!"

She stomps once to make her point, and, blessedly, he closes his mouth. "I don't want to talk about this," she says stubbornly. Emphatically.

"It's inevitable-" he begins, but she cuts him off once again.

"Draco, I can't. It's all I can do not to entertain these scenarios. I don't need you putting them in my head."

He shrugs, his face softening. "I'm doing the best I can in here. If I talk about it like it's not a big deal, it helps. Or, maybe it will. I'm not entirely sure how to get through this, either."

"Let me help you," she offers, thinking it more than obvious to have to say. "Anything you need, let me be here for you."

"You are, Granger. Before they moved me here… I'm not sure how long I was going to be able to make it on my own. Alone, in that Ministry storage… I might have been really happy to lose the apple. To waking up to the possibility of an end."

She nearly chokes on the realization of how close he came to being lost forever, an heirloom portrait tossed into a storage bin. "I'm so glad," she starts, swallowing, "they brought you here."

She means, as opposed to being stored away and forgotten. She means, instead of collecting dust in a Ministry vault. She means, that he could have wasted away in a quiet room, alone and afraid, and her throat burns with the effort not to sob.

He seems to think something infinitely more important however, and she drowns in his suddenly very soft grey eyes. Meaning a lot more than what she intended, but the thought very welcome indeed, he levels her with significance, and states very firmly, "Me too. There's nowhere else I'd ever want to be."

Fuck. She has to get him out.


	20. Chapter 20

"She won't want to talk to you, Granger. Best to let us handle this."

Hermione huffs at Theo, completely unimpressed by what is, if Harry is honest, a spot-on prediction of Aunt Gertrude Malfoy's portrait.

"I thought you said she was 'lovely'", she sneers at them, using her fingers to make rather aggressive air quotes.

"She is," Theo tells her. "She's a right doll to me, but  _I'm_ not a muggleborn. If you want our best shot of helping Malfoy, I recommend you set your pretty little arse down and let us handle this."

"Fine," she grinds out, "but I'll be right here." She points to the small sitting room at the apex of where the western corridor meets the main entry of Nott Manor. Harry gives her an apologetic look before turning the corner to follow Theo.

"I'm half surprised she agreed to stay behind," he comments, and Theo snickers.

"Just shows you how much she's looking forward to getting a little taste of my boy Draco, doesn't it."

Harry screws up his face, quite put-off by the notion. "I have no idea what she sees in him," he admits. Harry has been very positive thus far if he does say so himself, affording Hermione the limitless support she has always given him. Even if it put them in danger, even when he was unabashedly wrong, she never turned her back on him.

_But Malfoy_?  _Fucking hell, Hermione._

"He's more than you think, Potter," Theo says with a frown.

It seems like this would be where Nott would make a speech, highlighting the benefits and advantages of knowing Draco Malfoy, but Theo isn't that guy, and Harry doesn't need him to be. He's always had an ability to speak with his silence, and so Harry just nods, like he heard all the words that went unsaid. "I'm sure he is." A concession, as succinct as Harry's lover needs, and they are silent on the topic after that.

At the end of the corridor, the light growing dimmer as they are further from the main part of the house and the decor more sparse, they see the glint of a shiny frame, bronzed and well-preserved for its age.

Portraits are questionable at times, the mood of the subject when they are painted often serving to taint their knowledge, attitude, and truthfulness, but this particular Malfoy is one of the most genial of the lot. Harry interviewed Abraxas first, and was met with a lot of vitriol and refusal to part with family secrets. It is hard to use interrogation tactics against something that has no corporeal from to neither threaten nor entice.

Abraxas had responded that, if one of his line had himself in a bit of a 'spot', perhaps the aurors would like to 'earn their robes and do their jobs' and 'doesn't the Ministry have enough Malfoy money to operate effectively'? It had been painted before the first Wizarding War, and he had been a man of unquestionable power and means.

"Aunt Gertrude?"

"Oh, Theo, dear, what a lovely surprise." The woman in the painting squints, as if having difficulty making out the wizards that are no more than seven feet away. "And young Master Potter," she squeals. "How dashing you look, as always." She bats the eyelashes that slap against her puffy pink cheeks. Harry always thought Gertrude looked like she might be a distant relation of Dolores Umbridge, which is very much possible given the insular nature of the wizarding world, except with a more genuine demeanor and a reduced fetish for pink.

"Good to see you, Missus Malfoy," Harry tells her, charming as always. Ever since she arrived as part of Theo's inheritance, he has found her to be rather interesting to talk to.

She waggles a finger at him from the end of her rather large hand. "How many times must I insist? You are to call me Gertrude, dear boy, or Trudy at the very least!"

"Gertrude," he agrees genially. "I only meant to show my respect of course, but I would be honored to use your given name."

She blushes and sputters and finally lands her gaze on the Lord of the manor in which she now resides. "You look as though you've something important to say, all constipated and serious. Spit it out, lad, lest you explode with it."

A way with words, has Gertrude.

"With respect, Gertrude love, we are searching for something very important. I know it's uncommon to reveal the nature of such things, and you might not even know, given that you lived in the nineteenth century, but are you familiar with anything regarding the Malfoy family oubliette?"

Her mouth immediately thins. "Theodore Nott, you know how irregular it is to ask such things?"

He sighs at her in response and shoots a look back at Harry. "I told you, didn't I?"

"Told him what?" she snips out.

Harry shrugs, looking disappointed. "Well, it's terribly common, I'm sure. Being a  _witch_ and all."

"What's common? Harold James Potter, what do you mean by that?" She lifts her nose in the air at them, a haughty expression of defiance.

"It's a shame Armand's portrait didn't survive the Manor fire of 1641. Or his son's. I'm sure, as the wizard head of family, he had that knowledge."

"Oh ho," she laughs, irritated. "I see what you're doing. Well, it won't work. You can't goad me into sharing what I know by attacking my pride, boys."

Harry looks at Theo with a lot of put-on sympathy. "We should let her save face. I knew this was a waste of time. The poor girl is likely feeling embarrassed."

"Just because I know something doesn't mean you are privy to it," she interjects.

Theo ignores her soundly. "Well, forgive me for thinking she might not want to experience the end of the Malfoy line in all of Britain."

"Wait, the what? What's happened?"

"What does she care?" Harry gestures to Gertrude. "She's just a portrait."

"Now, just a minute -"

"And a witch," Theo reminds everyone in attendance. "It's not her responsibility to take care of the family."

"Now, see here -"

"We should tell Draco he's out of lu-"

"BOTH OF YOU,  _KINDLY_  STOP TALKING!"

Harry and Theo both turn a look of absolute innocence at her. "Aunt Gertrude?" Theo prompts.

"Now," she says, taking a visibly deep breath, "what is this about my Great Nephew?"

"It appears," Harry says, trying to seem very sorry about the whole thing, "that he's been placed in the oubliette. Unfortunately, Lucius, Merlin bless him, perished in the war. We were hoping to rescue poor Draco." It's a fair determination to say he is laying it on thick.

"We knew this was a long shot," Theo adds. "The Malfoy family is notorious to keeping important decision and information to the head of family, not bothering their wives with such things."

Gertrude scowls at him. "I expect as much from a Slytherin," she says then turns her gaze on Harry. "But a Gryffindor? Mister Potter, I am appalled. You know, you might have simply been forthcoming."

Harry gives her a lopsided grin. "Yes, well, in my experience you have to fight Slytherin with Slytherin."

"I am a Hufflepuff," she deadpans. "And Merlin save you if you have anything disparaging to say against my fierce and loyal house."

Theo and Harry both stop for a moment, their mouths hanging open. Finally, Theo laughs. "Gertrude, love, I always knew I liked you."

"I adore you as well, even if you were a petulant little brat growing up. Now, stop stalling. What's happened to Little Drakey?"

_Little Drakey?_  Harry mouths at Theo who stifles a snigger.

"As Harry said, he's trapped in the oubliette. We can't find him, and Lucius isn't here to get him out. Can you tell us anything?"

"You know it is highly irregular to share anything family related with a competing bloodline?"

Theo grins, "Hence the theatrics. Just trying to catch your attention, Trudy. And are we really competing? I always felt we were more like family."

She fights a grin and loses. "Always the cheeky little thing. For my nephew, you understand, is the only reason I am even entertaining this conversation."

"Of course," Harry nods. "We wouldn't ask otherwise."

There is a dramatic pause, and it very much seems like she is adding it for effect. "The oubliette has long been believed to be located in France, but a lesser known fact is that Armand and his family spent very little time at the Malfoi estate. The room is actually located in England."

"I knew it!" Harry blurts out. He turns to Theo and says with excitement, "I know we already looked, but let's go back to the Manor-"

"No, no. My boy, you are a dear, but you do not listen well, do you? It is no where so obvious. Family oubliettes are never at the main property. Where do you get your information, a half blood? No offense, Harry dear," she adds quickly. Months ago, Gertrude had allowed that Harry, while not a pureblood, was obviously " _more 'Potter' than that muggle woman_ ".

Harry gives an uncomfortable smile, thinking of Severus as their primary source of information, but doesn't answer. Eventually, she waves away the questions and continues, "It's no matter. The point, my darlings, is the Malfoy oubliette is located at the seaside cottage in Essex."

The wizards blink. "There's a cottage in Essex?" It's the least Theo-like Harry has ever heard him sound. Neither clever nor aloof, he's incredibly open and awkwardly surprised. Harry finds it quite endearing

Theo turns to him and asks, "The Ministry will have record of that, right? The location of the property?"

"Should, I would think…" He's thoughtful, brows furrowing.  _Why had they not inherited it between the two of them?_

They both look at Gertrude who has an eyebrow raised. "Not that I don't always enjoy the delicious visual of your visits, but should you not take that information and preserve the longevity of my bloodline?"

They exchange one last glance and then turn on their heels, nearly sprinting back down the hall. "Thank you, Gertrude," Harry calls behind him, just as Theo blows the portrait a kiss.

"You're my favorite witch in the world, darling!"

Harry hears her mutter with what sounds like sarcastic amusement, "And I wonder why  _that_ would be?"

"Well?" Hermione is waiting at the mouth of the corridor, watching them approach. "What did she say?"

"Essex!" Theo barks at her, grinning broadly.

Harry picks up the thread with a bit more verbalizing. "The Malfoy oubliette is in Essex."

He watches the smile spread across her face, and, though he might not understand whatever drew her to Malfoy, he can't deny the way her happiness illuminates her.

"Do we know where it is?"

Harry shakes his head but answers decisively, "They'll have the records at the Ministry."

Without a word, the three find the nearest floo. Hermione is the first to reach the bowl of powder and tosses a handful into the flames. "Ministry of Magic!"

With a smile, happy to help his friend and his lover rescue their, he assumes,  _second_ favorite wizard, he follows right after.

* * *

"What do you mean, it's been destroyed?"

The insipid witch across the desk is looking down her nose at Hermione. "I  _mean_ , that the Malfoy family cottage in Essex was destroyed in 1915. Some muggle nonsense, as I understand it. One of their little skirmishes."

"One of their… It was World War One! You daft, pompous, ignorant-"

"Hermione?"

She stops and looks over at Harry, taking a deep breath. Before she can start again though, Theo steps in to talk to the witch. "Please excuse Miss Granger. She's very  _excitable_ , you understand. I'm sure you've heard the rumours."

"Complete nutjob," the woman agrees.

Hermione hollers a rather neutered, "hey", but the room at large ignores her.

"Could you please give us the information on the location, Miss…."

"Florence."

"Miss Florence," Theo finishes. "We would love to at least see the property. It has historical significance, you see."

The witch raises an eyebrow, then points behind her to a collection of tomes on a crowded shelf. "Property records are just there. You're free to have a look."

They thank her and move to walk to the back of the room. As Hermione passes the desk, however, the woman mutters, "Bloody nightmare." The task of Draco's rescue her only priority, Hermione resolutely pretends not to hear.

The research portion of their task is tedious and detailed, sifting through old parchments with poor organization and conflicting information. If stakes were not so high for Draco, Hermione would be in heaven. As it is, what would usually be her favorite past time is making her very irritable.

"If wizards didn't have their heads up their collective arse and could take a page from muggles, they might find benefit in some basic ideas. The Dewey decimal system could transform the Ministry. It's downright archaic, this… this… complete lack of any conceivable-"

"Hermione." She stops immediately, hearing a bit of urgency in Harry's tone, and he continues. "I think I've got it."

Theo drops the book in his hands, and he and Hermione scoot their chairs closer to Harry, peering over the edge of the parchment he's holding. "This is it, yeah?" He tilts it toward Hermione for confirmation, and she scans it quickly.

"Yes! Oh, Harry, you found it!" She throws her arms around his neck, hugging him tight before releasing him and snatching the paper from his hands.

"I'd be jealous if I didn't know she loves that paper more than you," Theo comments, but he's grinning at their find, and Hermione knows he is as relieved as she is.

"Should we…?" Harry is thinking and talking and looking at the time, his watch in front of his face.

Hermione also considers what happens next. They have been researching for hours, and the world outside has no doubt gone dark. "In the morning," she says by way of suggestion. "Let's go first thing tomorrow."

They agree and make their way back to Grimmauld. She doesn't reveal too much, yet, always mindful of the devastation of false hope. However, she can't help her smile when she gives him only a vague idea of the day she has had.

"We have a lead," Hermione tells Draco, and his relieved smile lights the room.

* * *

"So… this is Essex?" Theo is bouncing back on his heels, swaying as he takes in the small cottages around them. Where a row of small houses, well-kept and charming, come to an end, an empty piece of property stands.

Hermione notes the street is quiet, and, in particular near the empty lot, there are very few muggles either motoring or walking by. "Latent repelling wards, I imagine," she says, voicing her train of thought that she hadn't started out loud. "Not enough to stop muggles from settling here, but they don't seem to be in a hurry to build on that land." She points to the lot she is studying.

The three make their way to the large piece of green space, looking for any sign of leftover magical signatures, the feel of broken or dismantled wards, or even physical evidence of an underground space.

"Homenum revelio." It's a feeble attempt on Harry's part. It seems unlikely that such a basic charm would work on an old family protection that is so deeply rooted as to affect even tapestries. He shrugs at them both when nothing happens. "Worth a try, I suppose?"

Hermione nods at him. "Anything," she voices. "We should try absolutely anything."

The three separate slightly, walking about the space. She doesn't necessarily feel the presence of wards or repelling charms, but there must be some reason the muggles haven't built here. This is prime real estate, itching to be developed into vacation homes or hotel property, the sea air in the breeze and the sun shining.

"I don't detect anything," Harry tells them both, yelling rather loudly and adjusting his language to be appropriately vague and non magical.

"Why wouldn't anyone build here?" Hermione answers back. "Seems like an awful waste."

"Can't build on it." A rough voice interrupts them, and Hermione glances over to see an elderly man, grey scraggly beard and all, sitting in front of the house next door. He is smoking, of all things, an actual pipe, and Hermione thinks he is every bit the Old Man and the Sea.

"Excuse me," Theo says politely, aristocratic upbringing toning his words. "Why is that, sir?"

"Too sandy," he grunts back. "Soil innit good fer it. If some con man is tryin' to get yer to buy it, I recommen' you tell 'im to get stuffed."

Theo snorts, a grin tugging at his lips. He jerks his thumb toward the man and tells Harry, "I like this muggle."

Harry gives Theo a look that very much implies he should watch his word choice. "Has it never been developed?"

The man shrugs, taking shallow puffs from his pipe as he does. "Was once," he confirms. "Back before the Great War. Nicest place fer miles, if memory serves. Which, mind you is a stretch seein' as how I was but a boy. Took some damage back then. Some Jerry shot outta the sky; bits o' his plane crashed all through the roof."

"So," Harry leads him, "they just tore it down then?"

"Aye. All the way to the foundation, they did."

"And, filled in the basement, I'd imagine," Hermione offers, hoping to drag out more information. Unfortunately, the old man just cackles at her.

"Miss, there weren't no basement. Too sandy, I jus' said. Not real sure how the thing stood so long. It were old as Methuselah, but stood nonetheless. Like bleeding magic, it were."

"Pfft, magic." Harry and Hermione look over at Theo. He is rolling his eyes in a most dramatic way. "That's ludicrous, of course. Magic indeed. That's a good one, sir."

"You're over correcting," Hermione mutters out of the side of her mouth. Then, louder and meant for the older man, "Thanks so much for your information! We're just looking around a bit. On holiday," she adds, hoping it all seems innocent enough.

He grunts something intelligible and gives them a bit of a wave, focusing his eyes back out toward the sea.

"No basement doesn't necessarily mean no oubliette," Harry offers quietly, the three standing close together in the middle of the plot.

"It doesn't," Hermione shakes her head in agreement. "Though, it seems like there should be some magical signature, right? Something left if it is sustaining the room within inhospitable soil?"

"We could come back this evening," Theo suggests. "Take a look with less muggles about."

"You going to get your hands dirty, Nott?" Hermione lifts an eyebrow at him.

"Well… I could ask an elf to do it."

What starts as a bit of chastising about the exploitation of sentient creatures quickly morphs into a grin. "Yes! The elves! If there's a magical room here, they'll know, won't they?"

"Better than we would, at least," Theo agrees.

Harry nods at them both. "Tonight then. Let's take a look."

Theo grins and claps Hermione on the back. "I knew I'd win you over to our ways. Let's go give Pipsy her orders."

Hermione grimaces, but, in the interest of saving Draco, doesn't make a fuss as they return to Nott's estate.

* * *

"Pipsy feels magic here, Master Theo, but Pipsy doesn't feel Master Draco."

"Can you maybe try again?" Hermione is attempting to be very polite and also keep her voice low. The three have returned and are skulking around in the near dark with a magical creature. Alerting the man next door, who she is now thinking of as 'Ernest', would be problematic at best.

Pipsy shakes her head sadly. "Pipsy wants very much to find Master Draco, but Pipsy doesn't feel his magic here."

"We know the oubliette was here, Pipsy," Harry tries. "It can't just be gone, can it?"

"Pipsy doesn't know, Harry Potter." Her large eyes are wet, and it seems her lip is trembling. Hermione thinks she sees the beginnings of a classic house elf meltdown in the making.

Taking a knee, she kneels in front of her and puts a gentle hand on Pipsy's bony shoulder. "Pipsy, you've been a family elf a long time, right?"

She nods enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, Miss. A most very long time. Master Abraxas was Pipsy's first master."

"So you know about the oubliettes, don't you? About the family rites?"

"Pipsy only knows what Pipsy is told. Pipsy doesn't know how to find Master's oubliette."

"But do you know it was here?"

The creature nods again, less enthusiastic but positive just the same.

"Do you think it could still be here? Could that be what your sensing?"

PIpsy cocks her head to the side, one ear flopping down to fold onto her forehead. "Family magic is strong. Like elf magic. Maybe Pipsy feels the room. Maybe not. Maybe Master Draco right here." She stomps her little foot down once, indicating he could be beneath them at this very moment.

"You can't… Apparate inside anywhere? If it's a Malfoy property, can't you pop through any wards?"

"Pipsy thinks she should, but Pipsy has never been inside one before. Maybe even elves cannot find these?"

Hermione is frustrated, but doesn't want to take out her ire on the elf. She takes a breath and says, "Thank you, Pipsy."

A moment of silence falls over them all, muggle noises of traffic and the soft crash from the sea punctuating their quiet. "So what then?" Theo finally asks. "What do we do now? He could be RIGHT HERE! We can't just… We can't just leave!"

"I don't know," Hermione admits, squeezing her eyes closed.

Theo looks lost and scans their faces. "Harry?"

She watches Harry shake his head, equally frustrated. "I'll go back to the Ministry," he says. "Now that we know where it is, maybe the Department of Mysteries could help after all?"

She can feel it, this sense that they are all grasping at straws. They are so very close to something, but can't find the path to get there. They are all studying each other, hoping one of them will have an idea. This is what she does, after all, isn't it? Research? Straightening her shoulders, Hermione says, "I'll go to Malfoy Manor tomorrow. With your permission, of course," she throws Theo a wry grin, trying to lighten the mood. "Surely there's something we've missed? Some record of the wards?"

It always feels better to be active. To do something. With a plan of action, weak though it may be, they agree to continue the search, focusing more attention on what they've found as far as a location and hoping it leads them to their lost wizard. It's not ideal, but it's a start, and it's the most positive she has felt in weeks.

"How was your lead?" Draco asks later, and Hermione can tell he's trying not to be too eager.

"Nothing conclusive yet," she says, "but we are looking deeper into it tomorrow. We're getting closer," she adds, smiling reassuringly. "It shouldn't be long now…"

He nods, seeming to understand she has little else to offer, but taking the positive news with relish. "Let's just think about other things then, shall we? I love the delicious ways you make me forget everything." He grins that devastating grin as he asks for her to give herself over, and, so, denying him nothing, she does.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much for your comments on the last couple of chapters! I'm trying to update more quickly and I've finally caught up to the point that I still have the document uploaded to FF so it's easier lol. I apologize for my lack of review replies recently but I'm hoping the faster update schedule might help with your forgiveness! :)

"Another one?"

Draco cocks his eyebrow at Granger as she shuffles back into her room. Her nose is buried in a copy of the prophet, and he can make out a partial headline of "eater Aided by Minis" which he takes to mean something along the lines of "Death Eater Aided by Ministry".

She looks up, a scowl still sitting on her pretty face. "The third," she confirms. "Harry says Skeeter isn't usually this obsessed, even with him. For some reason, though, she won't let this go."

"You look concerned," he notes with a frown. "I thought Potter said this wasn't anything to be worried about."

"He did," she says, and then corrects, "He  _does_. He's not really worried per se, but he is… paying a bit more attention. This article… they are now officially theorizing it's you." It wasn't such a big stretch, he supposes, hardly surprised, to opine as to the identity of a Death Eater the Ministry might keep in hiding. Draco is the only one still at large who was a minor. That alone makes him a likely candidate.

"Afraid they'll lock me in Azkaban, love?" he asks with a fond smile. His witch has been endearingly protective. After the first article, she had filed an official request for Auror protection due to her "anonymous involvement in the ongoing investigation of the whereabouts of missing Death Eaters".

"Actually, I think we might have that confirmed as a non-issue. Kinsley assures Harry that whatever Dark Magic landed you where you are, you will not be tried for it since you are basically held against your will," she says. "I hadn't wanted to count on Shacklebolt's support, but as of this afternoon, after this new Prophet article, Harry gave the Minister enough information to feel him out on the matter. Surprisingly, he is being supportive, even at an official level."

Draco breathes a sigh of relief. He knows the corruption of, not just the Ministry, but the more in-general corruption of man. To know the highest single ranking official in the Ministry will not look to make him an example does much for his peace of mind. He certainly hadn't thought he deserved to be strung up for Dark magic he hadn't personally used, but you never know how the powers that be might interpret 'truth'.

"But," she goes on, and Draco listens well, "I'm not above some irrational fear of Riddle supporters looking to take out the last of the 'traitorous' Malfoy family either. I worry all the press will lead them to Harry and then to his home. There are a few particularly zealous and vicious Death Eaters unaccounted for."

"Who?" He's never really asked before, not sure he wanted to know. He knows his parents are gone, and he still struggles some days to accept it. Perhaps because he didn't have proper closure, but it's easy to imagine they are still out there somewhere, along with whoever Hermione is about to name.

"Yaxley," she ticks off one finger, "Dolohov," another digit, "and Rabastan, just to name a few."

"Goyle's father?" he asks.

"Deceased."

"Rudolphus?"

"Azkaban."

"Greyback?"

"Killed by Aurors."

Draco wracks his brain, trying to imagine the old crew who would want him dead the most. He knows Vince's father would do him in without hesitation, but has already been told the man is in Azkaban, neutered to no more than threatening letters that merely scream into the void.

He looks back at her, then, and sees a strain behind her eyes. "There's more," he accuses, sure she has something else up her dainty little eyelet-trimmed sleeve.

"There's… Harry keeps receiving anonymous letters. Seems to be… digging for information. And now, after this article, becoming more focused on your identity. Harry's afraid maybe the author has an unhealthy obsession with finding you."

"Potter says it's safe here though, yeah? He won't let anything happen to you, right?" Everything that Draco has left in this world is standing in front of him. Not even a green apple to his name, his fortune in a state of flux he can't guarantee he will see again, family gone, name tarnished forever… All he has, and all he even really wants, is this witch.

Perhaps that's presumptuous. Maybe his reliance on her is unfair and assuming, considering everything: Their brief 'relationship', if you can even call it that, based on lust for so long on her side, their history before the war, how little he has to offer her and how much of a hindrance he will potentially be. He truthfully has no right to expect anything from her, but, as his godfather so recently accused, he is an  _entitled_  little prick, and he wants Hermione to be his.

"As safe as anything can be," she agrees. "Nothing is fool proof. Even Hogwarts-" She stops and flushes, and Draco blushes right back in shame.

"Even Hogwarts was breached," he finishes, the corner of his mouth twisting in his discomfort.

"I'm sorry," she rushes to apologize. "I don't… I just didn't even think. I  _don't think_  about you like that, so it's so hard to forget.  _That_  Draco Malfoy… I didn't know him. Sometimes it's still hard to reconcile him with you."

Draco shrugs, trying not to let it sting. That  _was_  him, after all. He may have been doing something terrible, something he didn't want to do, but he still did it. And it's not so very long ago. Not in the grand scheme. He wants very much to say he would be different now; that he would make better choices. But could he? In that exact position, not knowing the fates of his parents, and truly believing he could save them?

Not even just that, but what if it was Hermione? What if he had to make a hard choice for her? Draco knows he is a slick Slytherin, all the way to his core, self-preservation and ambition always ruling the proverbial roost in his heart, but he has the capacity for great loyalty as well. Even that blasted hat, for just one split second, had started to mutter, "Huffle-" but with a particularly venomous thought from Draco, quickly changed to shout a bold and sure, "Slytherin!"

What lengths would he go for his witch? Probably far more than she would appreciate. He imagines she would give him an earful of equal parts, "you should always do the right thing," and, "I can take care of myself, thank you."

So, he grins, and answers after only a beat, "It's alright, Granger. Forget about that little git. He let fucking Potter beat him in a duel. I'm much more appealing now."

She laughs lightly, and it seems sincere. "He was very handsome though. Even I could never deny that."

"Did you think of me then, holed away in your tower? Did you ever think of me as you do now?"

He expects more laughter, a fierce denial, perhaps a speech about how ridiculous the thought would have been. At the very least, he anticipates a sexually driven quip, confident and bold.

Instead, she bites her lip around a slow and shy grin.

His own smile, much more honest than before, splits his face in response. "You  _did_. Dear Merlin, you sexy little vixen, you thought of me."

"You were very handsome," she repeats, watching him for reaction.

"Can I tell you a secret, Hermione," he mock whispers and waits as she nods her head, cautious as ever. "I might have thought of you, too. Perhaps quite often."

She looks like she might say something, but Draco wants to offer her something real, not just return to their typical banter or let this moment pass. "I saw you once, down by the Black Lake. It was fifth year and you were reading, alone, just back from Hogsmeade. It was warm, and it was the first time I'd really seen you in muggle clothes. You wore a sundress that day."

He tilts his head, envisioning the moment as he retells the memory, for the first time, to anyone. This was a secret he never shared, kept selfishly only for himself: the beauty of Hermione Granger.

"The dress was blue and your arms were bare. I wasn't accustomed to that much skin, just for anyone to see. Your knees were bent and the skirt was puddled on your thighs, like you were sunning yourself. Your blasted cat was next to you, doing the same," he chuckles. "You had your hair down but it kept blowing against your cheeks, no matter how many times you tucked it behind your ear, grinning down at your book but huffing occasionally at your own curls. I'd never seen you like that before. Relaxed and happy. I thought you were the prettiest witch at school, and for the first time I could see it clearly. I've never forgotten it."

"I… I don't know what to say," she whispers back, obviously a little overwhelmed.

"You're even more beautiful now," he goes on, intent to say something that has been bothering him. "But I want you to know that this," he gestures between them, "is more than what you may think. More than… desperation or… whatever else anyone might accuse me of. I've been watching you longer than I should admit, Granger. This doesn't go away," he places his palm over his heart, indicating the way he feels, "once I'm out. Not even if you want it to."

Her eyes are wide, but she manages an answer anyway, shaking her head slowly. "I don't… I don't want it to go away. I had hoped it was more than that."

"More than I think I want to say out loud just now, from the other side of this mirror. I'll tell you more, when you can feel my breath on your skin."

She considers him, and he's horrified to see a glassy sheen in her eyes. He certainly hadn't meant to upset her. "I wish I knew when that would be," she laments.

He smiles a sad smile. "So do I, love. I have faith, though, in that regard. I have the smartest witch in wizarding Britain on the case, have I said? She's absolutely brilliant."

Hermione snorts, and he's happy to see a crinkle of amusement at the corner of her pretty eyes. "If she's so brilliant, one might think she'd have made progress by now. You've been here for months-"

"Well, to be fair," he interrupts, "you weren't really looking at first."

"That doesn't make me feel better," she chastises. "Just another way my supposed intellect failed us."

_Us. That sounds quite nice, indeed._

"Anything with the library today?" Hermione has spent the last few days looking for more about his familiy's oubilette. An Unspeakable team is simultaneously trying to physically find and penetrate the room from the property at Essex. Unfortunately, she just shakes her head when he asks, and looks equal parts disappointed and guilty, always carrying the weight of the world on her dainty shoulders. No one thought this would be easy, and he's still flying high on the one break through they've had. It is disconcerting to not even know where you physically are in world. At least he can now envision himself, tucked beneath sandy soil, the ocean waves crashing not too far away.

"What of Severus," he wonders next. "Has he had any luck? Any of those professional contacts pan out?"

There's that tightness in her eyes again. If Draco does make it out of this mess, knock on wood, he's going to challenge her to that muggle strip poker he's heard about from Theo. She has no capacity for falsehoods, at least where he is concerned. "What is it? Dear Merlin,  _now_  what's happened?"

She purses her lips in annoyance. "How do you always know what I'm thinking?"

Draco chuckles, feeling increasing adoration creep upon him. "You're so transparent," he accuses with a laugh.

She sighs, but explains, "There have been more letters. Seems to be from that same author that is sending to Harry. But now… they're coming to Grimmauld too. Like the writer is zeroing in on Harry more personally, as more than just the Auror on the case."

The levity Draco had felt is abruptly sucked out of the room. "Hermione, I don't like this. Maybe… maybe you should… I don't know… I don't like the idea of you being alone. Going to the shop every day, no one there with you…."

"I refuse to indulge the whims of a coward who won't even sign his name to an untraceable parchment," she says, haughtily, her nose in the air. Merlin, she's so much like his mother…

"I'd just… I  _worry_ , when you're not here, Granger," he admits. Alright so, he hadn't really been too worried before all this Prophet business, mostly just bored, but now he  _will_ be worried, and the Slytherin in him thinks that's close enough to truth.

"Are you suggesting I can't defend myself," she asks, and this feels like very dangerous ground. Ground he has anticipated would be often walked while involved with her.

"I am absolutely not suggesting that you in particular cannot defend yourself in a reasonable way." He sees her cheeks go pink. He supposes it's a sign of the frustration before the storm, but he goes on, imploring. " _Anyone_  can be hurt, Hermione. No one is  _always_  prepared,  _always_  ready.  _No one_. Not Severus, not me, and not you, either. The Death Eaters you mentioned… they won't challenge you to a duel or start with defensive spells. They Crucio first and Avada while you're down." He squints his eyes closed, flooded with a few choice memories he would very much like to forget. Nameless muggles staring with blank dead eyes.

Draco's vivid imagination, both a blessing and curse, changes the nameless, faceless muggle into a soft face, fanned by chocolate curls, warm brown eyes gone cold.

"Draco?" He looks up at her and realizes he has frozen, eyes closed and fists clenched while she watches.

"Sorry. Just, please, I'd feel better if I knew you were safe. Can you at least try not to be at the shop alone? You have an employee for a reason. There should always be able to be two of you there, right?"

She's eyeing him, and he's not sure what she's looking for, but she seems to find it.

"I suppose that's a reasonable request."

His heart is infinitely lighter at that. He lets out a slow breath, trying to offset the panic he knows she can see in his eyes with a casual reply. "Thanks, Granger."

"You're welcome, Malfoy," she throws back with a knowing smile. "How I'm going to convince Severus to agree is beyond me…"

"Tell him it's a favor to me," he snorts. "The man adores me."

Hermione arches a brow in response. "In the past month I've heard him call you 'entitled', 'petulant', and 'insufferable' on at least three occasions each. Yes, I can tell he thinks you do no wrong."

"All from a place of love," he assures her, grinning, and she laughs, much more free than before.

A knock strikes the door, and both Hermione and Draco look in that direction. "Come in," she intones. Draco is half surprised it wasn't locked. He's a little disappointed to note that probably means she will be leaving again before the end of the night. It's completely unfair of him, of course, but he wishes he could keep her here in this room all the time. It's more than boredom, more than concern for her safety, he just really enjoys her.

"Dinner, Granger." Theo leans his head around the door, but he has his hand dramatically hiding his eyes. "Is everyone and every portrait quite decent?"

"Salazar, you're such a git."

Quickly dropping his hand, Theo grins at Draco. "You know, we all missed you desperately. Glad you weren't really dead, you wanker."

"Yes. The affection positively drips from your words." He pauses, and then asks, "What's for dinner, then?" Draco isn't sure why he tortures himself like this, but his desire for something besides apples and almonds for dinner is growing by the day.

Theo grins that Cheshire grin of his. "Oh, you know, nothing fancy. Fruit and nuts mostly. Oh, and a lamb tagine with couscous and a lovely bottle of Nero d'Avola, already breathing of course. I know how you love those Italian reds."

"I fucking hate you."

Theo just laughs at him. Draco had expected nothing less, honestly. He's missed this fucker. "I'll make sure we put a stasis charm on any we have left. That can be your first meal when Granger here quits messing about and sets you free." Draco watches his friend wink at his witch, who merely rolls her eyes, obviously quite used to him.

"Of course we'll finish off the wine," he throws over his shoulder as he leaves. "I do love what it does to Potter. Less inhibitions and all that." Draco grimaces, not at all interested in thinking of the Chosen One with anything beyond barely-concealed annoyance and latent, never-admitted, envy.

"When you're ready, Granger," Theo says as he's closing the door.

Draco has some unkind words on the tip of his tongue, but Granger speaks first.

"He's really good for Harry."

That's not at all what he had expected. "Oh?" is all he can manage, not sure why she might think Theo is good for anything other than quippy one-liners and otherwise fading into anonymity. That is to say, Draco loves him like a brother, but those are pretty much the impressions of everyone else who ever knew the wizard.

"Harry's so intense. Carries too much weight on his shoulders. He needed someone to ease the tension in the room. Theo's good for that."

"Because the man has no sense of responsibility?" Draco huffs with a grin.

She shrugs. "For whatever reason. It's no one's business to know how they work. They just do."

"Like us?" He asks, very much liking her simple view on relationships, and hoping it carries over to her own.

He's never seen a prettier smile when she says, "Nothing at all like us. We make complete sense, and I won't let anyone tell us otherwise."

What he'd give to sweep her up into his arms in that moment. Certainly his last green apple if he still had one.


	22. Chapter 22

As with many things in life, the breaching of the exterior wards at Grimmauld Place comes when no one expects it. It's late, but not the middle of the night. The inhabitants of the old Black homestead are all in for the evening. Most are asleep, though Harry is still awake, going over some reports for the following day.

Research on Draco's situation has arrested slightly over the past couple of weeks. Potter recently had a follow-up meeting with Bill Weasley regarding pureblood ancestral protections, but it had not panned out as relative information. The Unspeakables have further investigated into the physical location in Essex, though have not been able to find an entrance by either natural or forced means. Severus continues to be acerbic but oddly supportive.

Hermione is asleep. Lying nude under a thin sheet, remnants of sweat still spot her skin from the overexertion of her evening activities with Draco. Malfoy himself, hasn't quite nodded off just yet. He's lounging on his sofa in only his shorts, reading a book of historical Charms regulation that Hermione left on the pedestal.

Salazar bless the witch for always thinking of him. One of his red apples disappeared today. He's trying to distract himself by any means possible.

When the wards shimmer, Draco doesn't feel it, but suddenly Potter is there, bursting through the room.

"Hermione!"

"Wuh... Harry?" Draco watches her sit up, already alert and mindful of her state of dress (or lack thereof). She pins the sheet to her breasts with her arm and darts her eyes around the room, wand already in hand before the words leave her mouth.

"Potter, what is it?" Draco demands, cursing his inability to do anything even if there does prove to be a danger in the house.

"The wards. Something tried to breach the wards. Made it through the threshold, but they couldn't dismantle the one that protects the doors."

Hermione catches Draco's eye. She must not like what she sees in his face, he would assume a healthy mix of anger and terror, because she frowns. Still looking toward his portrait, she asks, "But they  _didn't_ , then? Couldn't make it through? We're fine?"

"This is not fine, Granger!" Draco nearly shrieks at her. Everything he's been afraid of, the reality that Potter and Granger and everyone else ignored, has happened! Someone, likely looking to do him permanent harm, was within mere yards of his witch. Who knows how close they were, or how many there were? "Potter, just  _what_  are you going to do about this?"

Draco recognizes the haughty quality in his own voice and absolutely  _does not care_. This is the tone he learned from Lucius Malfoy; a tone that expects to receive and implies consequences if not. Draco very much expects this wizard to protect what's his until such time as he can do it himself.

"What am I going to...? Fuck off, Malfoy. This is  _my_  home, and  _I_  will take care of it.  _You_ , you walking liability, can just sit quietly while I get it sorted."

Draco glares back and opens his mouth to speak, but Hermione jumps in. "Oh, enough! Honestly! They only breached the exterior wards, and that is  _exactly_  what they're here for." She looks at Draco, her tone softening. "They are really more of a warning than an actual barrier, anyway. It's the interior wards that are meant to keep people out, and that's precisely what they did."

"I don't like it," he barks out, but it's probably more petulant than anything.

"None of us like it," she placates, "but Harry has the best wards in place. Black ancestral, Potter familiar, and Ministry official. We're  _fine_ , Draco."

_We are fine_ , she says, but all he wants is to hear her say that  _she_  is fine. She seems to be; doesn't even look afraid. His little Gryffindor is such a mix of fool-hearty and brave, it's very hard for a self-protecting Slytherin to get behind.

"What's the fuss?"

All three sets of eyes glance to the door, and subsequently roll. Theo is wearing low hanging sleep pants and pink bunny slippers on his feet. He rubs his eyes, squinting into the room, and Draco chuckles at him.

"Sorry to wake you, Princess," he sneers at his friend. Theo flies a 'v' right back at him.

"Hey! What the f- Theo! Those are mine!"

Theo looks down at his feet and back up again. "Well you weren't wearing them..."

"I thought we had a talk about personal boundaries," Harry mutters out of the side of his mouth. Draco glances over at Hermione, and they share a smirk at, both, the banter, and also Potter's taste in domestic foot wear.

"Please. You _really_  take issue", Theo starts, disbelieving, "if my feet touch the same place your feet touch, and yet you put your mouth-"

"Stop! Enough!  _Good night_ , everyone who doesn't live in this room!" Draco has stepped right up to the mirror, and has both hands up in surrender. His witch just giggles at him.

"Wait," Theo turns serious, "none of you answered my question. Why the little slumber party in the girls' dorm?"

Draco thinks if he has to share a residence with Theo much longer, his glare is going to become permanent. Does he sodding live here now?

Potter sighs, but answers, "We had an attempt to get through the wards."

Theo blinks. "Seriously? But… they  _didn't_  of course." It's just almost a question, and Draco can see that his friend is a little nervous. Theo was always good at seeming aloof enough that one might call it brave. Truth is, Theo has a softer center than he lets on. He's sensitive and emotional and tends to worry over those he cares for. The way he's looking at Potter, Draco thinks it obvious just who Theo is concerned about.

"Of course not," Potter answers. "We're safe here. Probably the safest place in England with the extra enchantments." He starts to step out of the room, but Theo blocks the door; as much as his wiry frame can block anything.

"Potter," he starts, a soft growl in his voice, and Draco assumes Theo's about to chastise the wizard for his flippancy.

But Harry just cups one palm under his jaw and answers, firmly, "It's fine. I need to send an owl to Kingsley. I'll be right back up."

There is a hesitation, then Theo moves aside, letting his lover go and letting out a breath.

"You can't talk him out of being reckless," Hermione comments. "Or overconfident… Pretty much, you can't talk him into much of anything."

Theo shakes his head. "I don't know how you put up with him for so long." His face is fond, despite his chastising words, and Hermione must see it too.

She grins, and answers, "I'll ask you in about eight years how  _you_  handle it, and then we'll understand each other."

"Eh, whatever, Granger," he answers with a flippant wave of his hand. "I'm going back to sleep." But he can't fool Draco who sees a ghost of a smile when confronted with the future.

The door closes softly behind him, and Draco is left alone with his infuriatingly calm witch. She has the temerity to raise an eyebrow at him, daring him to unleash his panic upon her.

Draco takes a breath and starts, as calmly as he can, "Granger, this is what I was worried would happen."

"I know-"

"I mean, I believe I made that clear, correct?"

"Yes, you did, but-"

"And I  _also_  believe that you and your friend completely ignored my concerns." His voice is rising steadily, images of terrible fates befalling his lover flash through his head.

"We are all fully aware-"

"And did you  _not_  assure me that everything was fine? That we are totally safe? That  _you_  are completely and utterly free of danger?!"

"Draco-"

"What the ever loving fuck, Granger!? They breached the wards! In an Auror's home! Pitiful excuse for one, he might be, but an Auror none-the-fucking-less!"

"Merlin, will you just-"

"No, Hermione, I will not  _just_. I absolutely will keep on…  _not justing_!" Draco is so flummoxed he has no words.

She giggles. Salazar save him, she giggles at him. "This is serious!"

"Oh, I know," she says through her ridiculous laughter. "I'm fully aware."

"Then, why the fuck are you laughing! You could be hexed! Killed! I'm  _worried_  about you… dear Gods, will you stop!"

She's absolutely cackling now. He would be entranced by the sparkle in her squinting eyes if he wasn't so worried for her. He could be taken by the draw of her skin, her shoulders bare and the sheet slipping down her chest in her mirth. He's just too agitated to see straight, to focus on her beautiful eyes or her milky skin or-

"Godric, I love you, Draco."

Then, everything stops. Her laughter catches in her throat. He can almost see it, like she's choking on whatever mistake she looks like she just made. Draco loses sight of the reason why he was just having a complete come-apart at her.

"I..."

He feels his heart sink. She's looking wide eyed and afraid, and he understands immediately. She meant  _I love you_  like she might say  _I like ice cream_.

So, he does what any self-respecting, self-serving, self-protecting wizard would do. He tries to let her off the hook. "Well, well, so I rank with Potter now?"

"I… I mean, that's not…"

He laughs, because he doesn't know what else to do with his mouth. "At least with Weasley, then, right? Please don't relegate what we have below the weasel."

She's still staring at him, and it's making him even more uncomfortable. Why doesn't she just take the lifeline? Laugh it off with him and go back to treating him like a piece of painted meat.

Wow. Bitterness sets in quick.

"It's not a big deal, Granger. I'm pretty appealing," he tries, re-directing to his usual cocky swagger.

"Draco, please-"

"Of course," he goes on, ignoring her and waving his hand around carelessly, "you'll have to share me with Theo. He adores me completely." When he dares a glance back, her face has fallen.

"You don't need to be cruel."

He frowns at her. "Cruel? I'm trying to do you a favor here, Granger."

She nods sharply once. "I see," she clips out. "I suppose it was too much to ask to be let down easy. Maybe with some dignity. I hadn't meant…that is, I didn't mean to say anything. It just slipped out. But there's no reason to make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you," he answers, slightly more sincere. "I know you didn't mean it, so I was trying to give you an out. I'm not a monster."

A silence stretches between then. He's staring at her so hard, unblinking, waiting, he feels his eyes goes dry as his pulse tries to slow. Whatever she says next could very well be the end of whatever fragile thing their odd, lust-filled romance was leading toward.

Just when Draco thinks he will have to break the silence, she licks her lips and speaks.

"I never said I didn't mean it," she replies, softly. "I just… wanted to wait. To say it. After… Or apparently, I shouldn't have had my hopes so high. I just thought…"

Draco steps right up to the mirror, eyeing her. He's not quite sure, but he thinks maybe what he's seeing is the beginning of  _exactly_  what he wants, realized. "Granger…"

"Don't, please." She holds up her hand, begging him to stop. "Just, don't. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, but I'm not going to take something back that I meant. We can just forget about it, alright? It's fine. I'm a very independent witch. It's not as if I  _need_  reciprocation. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself and-"

"Merlin's beard, will you stop talking? Are you truly under the impression I'm not completely in love with you?"

She blinks. "I… I wasn't necessarily  _not_  under that impression. That is, I was hoping… for some impression that might be forthcoming. Eventually. Not that I was putting expectations on you, of course." She rises as she talks, wrapping the sheet around her and stepping closer.

His palm on the glass, what he's come to realize is the closest he can come to a visual or physical sign of his affection, he shakes his head at her. "You can expect anything you like." He shrugs his shoulder and tilts his head. "I'm just going to give it to you anyway."

"I love you," she breathes, repeating the words but with vastly deeper meaning more evident than before. She places her palm over his, her other hand still clutching the sheet at her breast.

"What happens when I get out of here, Granger," he asks, earnestly. "Am I yours?"

Hermione whimpers, but then grins. Nodding, she confirms, "Most definitely. All mine."

"For more than just riding like a hippogriff," he quips, and she laughs brightly.

"Much, much more."

"Get me out of here, Granger. Please." The words are raw, full of a lot more than he intended. Full of  _everything_. Fear and desperation and an astounding love for the witch in front of him.

"I will," she says, resolute as ever. She's said it before, and he believes her intentions as much now as ever, but it's different too. Nothing and everything has changed today.

"I know," he tells her. Whether or not she truly  _can_  remains to be seen, but he chooses to take solace in her intention.

* * *

An owl comes to Grimmauld the next day. She assumes it's for Harry, but opens it anyway. Another anonymous, untraceable letter, but this one, for the first time, concerns Hermione on a more personal level. She takes it with her, to the shop, intending to stop by Harry's office after she sets her potions to brew.

"What have you there?" Severus has stopped the careful slicing of ingredients for the cauldron in front of him and is frowning at her from across their brewing space.

"Nothing," she tries, quickly. Too quickly, probably. Hermione has never been a proficient liar.

Her partner is already around his table and approaching her, arm out. "Let me," he instructs in his usual brusque manner. Hermione holds the missive to her chest.

"It's nothing. Just the usual-"

She is cut off when he snatches the parchment from her, giving her an unimpressed look.

"Miss Granger, you have never been adept at falsehoods. Do give me the respect not to attempt such poor performances."

She huffs at him, but makes no move to take the letter back. His eyes are already darting across the words, and she doesn't expect this will take long.

"You need to contact Potter," he says, instantly.

She rolls her eyes at him. 'Protective' is not a word she would have thought in regards to Severus Snape years ago, but has since realized just how intense his efforts for those around him have always been.

Unfortunately, she'd misunderstood those efforts as a child and set his robes on fire.

"Severus, we receive these almost daily," she tries to calm him. "Harry probably has already received another-"

He stalks away from her, approaching the floo, and tosses a handful of powder angrily into the grate. "Auror Potter's office," he barks at the flames.

Fiddling with her cellular in her pocket, she tries, "We could just call him…"

If looks could kill…

"Snape?"

"Potter, the situation with Mister Malfoy needs to be addressed."

"What do you… I mean, I  _am_  addressing it. We all are, or that was the impression I was under. Wait… something happened," he accuses, suddenly on alert. "What happened?"

Hermione watches Severus lift the parchment and reads. " _It's true then. You have him stowed in the old Black townhouse. You will not keep me from him. I have been patient, but your efforts are lacking. What room, I wonder? Walburga's old bedroom? That stifling little parlour on the first floor? The attic perhaps? Does the Granger girl live there as well? Or only frequent the premises?_ "

He stops reading and levels Potter with a look. "He knows too much about your living arrangements. About the home. He's familiar with it."

Harry scrunches his face. "I'm coming through."

Suddenly he's there, and it actually fills Hermione with a little relief to see him. "Hey, Hermione," he greets, noticing her for the first time.

"Harry. Thanks for coming over."

He brushes her gratitude aside, no comment needed. Of course he would come, for so many personal and professional reasons. She smiles at him, but then he is back to addressing Severus, holding out his hand to request the parchment.

"Who could know that? Order members?"

"Or Death Eaters," Severus confirms and adds to the mix. "Both sides of the war, both of whom might hold a grudge against Draco."

"Well," Harry mutters, annoyed, "glad that's narrowed down, then."

"Who?" Hermione interjects. "I mean, who  _specifically_  should we be thinking?"

Harry assumes, "Any Death Eater. I imagine, Narcissa betraying Riddle in the end, any of them might want to take revenge on Draco."

"Not to mention," Severus sneers, "Any order member who lost family or associates during the war. Do not presume having fought for the Order equates to innocence."

Harry cocks his head. "It's funny how often you forget all the times the Ministry tried to make me a villain. Haven't you figured yet? I'm a complete grey hat." He grins and Hermione stifles a welcome little laugh at her friend.

"You're a fool, is what you are, Potter, but I find my horse so often hitched to your proverbial wagon."

Snape looks quite disgruntled about that notion, and Hermione isn't quite as successful in hiding her mirth. She clears her throat and straightens her face. "Yes, well, be that as it may, it seems our list of suspected parties is growing larger rather than smaller."

"You know," Harry ponders aloud, "these letters come anonymous. Obviously,  _we_  aren't giving them any information, and, at the ministry, I've kept the details of this case off the record to prevent leaks. How is it the author seems to learn more over time? How did he arrive at the idea Draco is at Grimmauld Place? Why is he focused so specifically on me, not just the Auror department or the Ministry?"

Hermione's whole face crumples as she realizes a possible oversight on her part (and Harry's, but she's rather used to him overlooking things). "A trace. Did you check the letters for a trace?"

Harry frowns. "We had them swept for intention of malice, hexes, information gathering via sight, sound, touch-"

"But can they be traced? Can the writer know where the letters are?"

"I…" He blinks. "I suppose, depending on the type of spell-"

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Potter, what does the Ministry pay you for?!" Severus has snatched the parchment back. "Of all the inane, short-sighted, inept…" He continues to mumble as he waves his wand over the paper, and Hermione watches him sigh. "It's faint, but it's there. Whoever wrote these, knows where they have been."

He looks back at Harry, his eyes narrowed. "Take your work home with you a lot, Potter?"

Hermione watches him blush and mutter a vague, "Sometimes."

"All of the letters, every one that was received in your office, at any other Auror's office, they all ended up in your home, yes? Along with the ones delivered directly there?"

Harry nods. "So he has determined where you live. The rest, where Mister Malfoy is kept, is likely part guesswork, part pieced together with information from the Prophet. He may or may not realize Mister Malfoy is in a portrait, but has surmised he will find him under your protection."

Hermione closes her eyes and breathes for patience. How did she miss this? How did Harry.

Hell, how did Snape until now? They've been so worried about getting Draco out, perhaps they did not take the threats on his life as seriously as they should. Except Draco of course. He has been in a panic more than once over the possibilities.

"Should we move him?" Hermione asks. "Find another location?"

"The Ministry?" Harry blurts out.

"Too obvious," Hermione cautions. "Not to mention, you might have to bring in more people than Kingsley, and I'm not sure I trust anyone there right now, not with the possibility of Order members involved." She pauses, and then asks slowly, "You don't think…that Kingsley…"

She is surprised when it is Severus, not Harry who interrupts her. "Shacklebolt is an honorable wizard. He would never endanger anyone, even a former Death Eater, for any personal vendetta." He seems so sure, so adamant, Hermione only nods in reply, letting that particular thread go.

"If we move him, none of us should be near him." Harry is giving Hermione a very knowing look. "If someone is sending us owls, and you receive it wherever he is, there will have been no point to moving him."

She hadn't thought of that. Hermione could get through it, of course. If it meant Draco's safety, she could live some lonely nights. But what of Draco? He has said the year that he lived in virtual solitude nearly killed him. Now, to know his food is running low and there is a threat to his life zeroing in on him? And then to live once more in seclusion…?

"I don't know if he could take being alone."

"He could stay at my place."

They all three look up to find Penelope in the doorway. She shrugs at their confused look. "No one would think to connect me with Malfoy. I live alone, in a muggle district no less, and as of now, no one knows about me and Severus except for you, Harry, and Theo."

She gives the wizard a fond look and laments with a facetious sigh. "I guess we'll have to wait a few more weeks before the big coming out party."

Severus snorts at his lover, and Hermione is struck with a poorly timed feeling akin to enjoying cute cat photos. He's more adorable than she would have imagined.

Seeming to know what she's thinking, Severus scowls her direction. She offers an awkward little wave in response.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Harry says. "It might not be safe and I can't let you get hurt. It's not professional on my part… not to mention, Severus would probably peel my skin off in tiny squares…"

"Indeed."

Penelope raises an unimpressed brow. "Is this the part where I have to remind you that I am a highly capable,  _very_ smart witch? Or the part where I ask if I am of more or less concern than Hermione, who has been living with him for months? Or where I ask if you wouldn't be willing to bestow some professional wards on my flat?"

"Of course not," Harry blurts out, unthinking.

"Which?" The eyebrow lifts higher. Merlin, is the woman melding into another Severus. It's true what they say about couples starting to resemble each other.

Hermione grins to herself, wondering if Draco's hair will become bushier as she learns to snark on command.

"Penny." Everyone goes quiet in the face of the quiet and earnest tone in Severus' voice. "Are you certain? I would never presume to make your decisions for you-"

"No, you absolutely will not," she interrupts, but softens almost immediately. "It's a good idea," she continues. "Harry says Grimmauld is safe, and the author likely knows Draco is there. It should be some time, if ever, that he might put together this new information. He's really only guessing anyway. Putting together a theory, and probably hoping these threats make you sloppy enough to somehow confirm."

Harry is visually considering, his mouth screwed up into a flat line as his wheels turn. "It won't be for long, anyway, right?" Penelope presses further. "You're going to find the way to get him out. After that, he's Hermione's problem again." She grins at her employer, and Hermione smiles back.

"Thank you, Penelope. I just…He  _can't_ be alone again." The two witches seem to come to a real understanding. Both intelligent, well-adjusted woman, touting a less than magically pure birth, knowing the dangers of involvement with men that carry Riddle's mark. Penelope probably has more insight than Hermione had previously given her credit for. There is an ever-present challenge in her eye, as well as a knowing sympathy directed at Hermione alone.

They nod to each other, and Hermione turns back to Harry. "Let's move this week. I don't want to risk another attempt being more successful." She stops then, realizing, "Oh my God! Is he there alone?!"

Harry grins, reassuringly. "Of course not. Theo's there."

Somewhere, across the city, Theodore Nott smirks up at the portrait of his resurrected best friend, never happier with life than he has been in these past however-many weeks. Seated on the edge of Granger's bed, enjoying some daily quality time, a hand of playing cards held to his face, he thinks life is just about perfect.

"Sorry, wanker," he needles, gleefully. "Go fish."


	23. Chapter 23

The plan to move Draco's portrait is put on, at least, a temporary hold. To no one's great surprise, the Malfoy heir throws what Hermione would call a massive hissy fit.

"Let me talk to him," she had entreated Harry and Severus. "Let Penelope know there's a delay, but... maybe we can move him this weekend?" They both had given her looks of aggravation and indulgence, but left her to try to talk the world's most entitled prat into something he doesn't like.

"I am  _not_  moving in with Snape's witch," he says, glaring. "I'm staying right here where I can keep an eye on  _mine_."

His arms are crossed over his chest, and Hermione has never seen him look more like a child than he does now. Images come unbidden of a tiny Draco stomping his foot and demanding a Firebolt for the entire team because, "Potter has one!" It's all she can do not to chuckle at him.

She doesn't, of course. This is serious.

"Draco, you are the one who has been so worried about the letters, the ward breach. Let us protect you."

"But he won't know I've moved!" he yells back. "Which means he will still come here, and it's  _you_  I'm worried about, you ridiculous witch!"

"I'll be fine-" she starts to argue, but he cuts her off.

"Stop saying you'll be  _fine_ … everything's  _fine_! Everything is  _not_ fucking fine! Some mad wizard is trying to kill me, and I'm sure he would have no qualms about going through you to do it! Not to mention, I'm down yet  _another_ apple, and my carafe is barely half full! Nothing... NOTHING... is fucking fine!"

Hermione just stares back for a long time. Draco has been upset before, of course. He was upset over his apple, he was afraid for her over the wards... But there is a panic here she suddenly realizes is probably always under the surface. He's so good at being flippant, at acting haughty and unaffected, but this raw display feels very sincere indeed.

"Draco..."

"I don't want to go," he chokes, his volume fading as his anger is spent. "Please don't... What about when she's not home? Clearwater's at the shop almost everyday... and you can't visit... and Theo probably shouldn't either... Please don't send me away."

"Draco," she begs, heart breaking for him, "I just want you  _safe_."

"Hermione, I can't spend the next... how long? Four months, if I'm lucky? Less? I can't watch my food disappear and know I might well starve to death... alone, and scared to death over you."

She blinks. He's afraid. Terrified.

_Of course he fucking is_ , she chastises herself. Hermione is fully aware that Draco has emotional walls, she just lets herself believe he is as relaxed as he lets on most of the time. More than the obvious sexual gratification, more than relief from boredom, she sometimes forgets he's relying on her for emotional support, unconcerned as he often seems to be.

_Is it worth it, then,_  she wonders, sending him to Penelope's home at the sacrifice of the comfort she provides him?

"I don't want you to go," she tells him with both sympathy and profound regret, "but I don't know how to protect you. Severus is concerned now. Harry, even. They were fine before, but the letters are more insistent, arriving more frequently. He knows things… about this house. We think… he's been here before."

"Or she," he pouts out, and it just makes Hermione love him more.

She nods. "Or she. Regardless, I don't see Severus flustered very often. And Harry… he's so desensitized to letters of this nature, I didn't think anything would ever rattle him. Just… at least  _consider_  letting us move you.  _Please._ "

He is quiet for a moment, but then his face brightens, a smirk finally settling where it belongs, back on his lips. "I have a counter offer."

Hermione screws up her face in agitation. "This is not a negotiation, Draco."

"Oh please," he scoffs, " _everything_ is a negotiation. If it's not, it just means you don't have any leverage. What I propose is: Potter leaks information that I have been moved and the address to the location. Clearwater can stay with her greasy lover for a little while so the place is empty."

"You want to… leave a false trail?"

Draco nods. "Essentially."

Hermione had been so worried about his safely, about going on the defense, she hadn't even considered a more aggressive alternative.

"It's… I mean, the idea does have merit," she allows.

He snorts at her. "Of course it does. But it can't be obvious. Don't make a muggle stake-out from the whole affair. Just set some standard wards and see what happens, similar to the wards here. That might actually give us a bit of insight. Which ones couldn't be breached?"

Hermione thinks a moment before answering, "The Potter familiar were the strongest, probably because of Harry's magic at the core of them. The Black protectives fell, as did the Ministry layer."

"It wouldn't be immediately obvious what was holding firm," he ponders out loud. "Put the Black and Ministry wards in place, but use something else for the third. Clearwater might have her own. Or maybe use something random like… your little Weasel brood's."

" _Must_  you always be such an arse when you're being brilliant?"

Draco grins. "Just staying true to form, love. So, you agree with my alternative then?"

She hesitates, not because she disagrees per se, but looking at every angle before jumping in with both feet. "I think it's worth exploring," she decides upon, diplomatically. "I'll speak with our band of heroes about it."

He snorts at her phrase, and she smiles in turn.

Hermione's expression falls, however, when she remembers to comment on something said earlier. "Your carafe," she broaches the subject, "it's only half full?"

Shrugging, Draco points to the side table. Indeed, the water level of the crystal decanter has dropped well below the bottom of the slightly more narrow neck. He's back to acting aloof about his situation, and Hermione takes a deep breath not wanting to panic in his stead. "No problem," she says instead, more calm than she feels. "You've been there for months. It should last longer than we need to get you out."

"Unless the depletion is exponential," he intones, and she glares back at him.

"Not a helpful theory, Draco."

He just grins, seeming to enjoy her agitation. She supposes she can allow him small pleasures where he finds them.

XXXXXXXXX

As it happens, leaking the supposed move of Draco Malfoy, the 'Ministry's Death Eater Darling', as Skeeter has now dubbed him, is easy as proverbial pie. The official story is that Draco is being moved to a safe house in Muggle London, the name of the home's owner never mentioned.

Not only does the story run the following day, but Harry is able to narrow his leak suspicions for the first time in months. Ignoring the expected chain of command, he takes it right over his boss, Head Auror Robards, straight to Shacklebolt instead.

"McLaggen is on the list."

Hermione looks a little startled. "Cormac? Is he… I mean, is he even smart enough to know  _how_  to leak information?"

Sitting at the small table in Harry's kitchen with the pair, Theo snorts. "He's absolutely  _not_ smart enough, but even a broken clock and all that…"

"He knows the portrait is here," Hermione comments.

Harry nods in agreement. "This went to press very fast, even by Rita's standards."

"I hope…" Hermione begins, then trails off, unsure. She shakes her head at herself. "I don't know what I hope, honestly. Something to happen, I suppose. Maybe this will flush out the anonymous writer, but we need a way to get to Draco."

"We will," Harry tells her, but it's an empty platitude and they all know it.

Hermione doesn't want to say "what if we don't", mainly because it feels like the group is already thinking it. Even Theo looks more pensive than normal.

"Have you received any letters this week, Harry?"

Her friend confirms with a nod. "I have. Robards is keeping them now. Kingsley brought him in, Head Auror and all," Harry says , like he can't be bothered to care for titles, "and now the man wants to micromanage all the details."

"Anything of note?" Hermione is stirring a bit of milk into her tea, so she's not looking Harry's way, but she would swear there is a falter in his tone.

"Not really. Much of the same."

She gives him a discerning look, but he resolutely looks away and then starts up a conversation with Theo.

"Once he's out, you'll give him his manor back, I suppose?"

With a snort, Theo agrees, "Of course. What am I going to do with two manors? I never stay at my first one - always bumming around here with you tossers."

"Because we're fantastic," Harry tells him, and they laugh together like only lovers do. Hermione feels more than a sliver of jealousy at their easy rapport.

She's searching for something to say, feeling a bit like a third wheel, when she's rescued from awkwardness with something far more dramatic.

"Miss Granger. Potter." The low bark of Severus Snape travels from the parlour, preceding him by mere moments as he sweeps into the room. "The wards were breached," he tells them in no particular tone. "Perhaps you'd like to investigate?"

Harry is on his feet before Hermione can so much as make a sound. "I'm coming with you," she blurts out. Before Harry can argue, as she's positive he is about to do, Hermione cuts him off. "Don't even think about arguing, Harry Potter. I'm. Coming. With you."

He sighs, highlighting the sound by commenting, "Know what that was? A  _long suffering sigh_. Of course you're coming. When have I ever been able to stop you?"

"Exactly. I'll just grab my bag."

With no more fanfare, she flounces out of the room to collect her handy, and secretly extended, beaded bag. The tiny parcel that had carried so much for the trio during the war is now outfitted with a small arsenal of magical potions and products for nearly any emergency. Perhaps it's a side effect of her tumultuous youth, but Hermione can't imagine a world in which she doesn't always prepare for any eventuality.

When she rejoins Harry, Severus is still there. She raises her eyebrow at him, and he raises his perfectly arched black one right back. "You imagined I would sit on my thumbs while you child heroes win the day, did you? Do me the courtesy of not confusing me with Albus."

She scoffs at him, shaking her head. "So bloody dramatic. Come on then. Let's see about this blossoming author."

Theo does not join the party. He seems to have slipped into a roll of designated Malfoy Minder, and it suits him well. It does Hermione's heart a lot of good to know Draco will be happy and distracted, not sitting alone and worrying over her circumstances.

"I'm going to teach him how to play Texas Hold 'em today," he had said as they gathered to leave.

Hermione had eyed him. "And where did you learn all these muggle card games?"

"Blaise."

"And where would  _he_  learn- You know what? Nevermind. Have fun and just keep him from worrying himself sick."

Theo had saluted her and sauntered up the steps. Just as he was about to disappear down the hall to Hermione's room, he'd tossed back carelessly, "Oh, and, to sate your endless curiosity, Blaise has a thing for muggle girls. Someday we can all enjoy a friendly game of Strip Poker."

She'd muttered as they turned to leave, "That one's all you, Harry."

For the three remaining, Apparition is the travel mode of choice.

The world finally rights itself, and Hermione glances around to get her bearings. She asks Severus, with whom she travelled side-along, "Where are we?"

He points toward the end of the alley in which they are standing. "Miss Clearwater's residence is just there. Come."

Casting a quick disillusionment charm as he walks, Severus leads them to a duplex with a simple brick exterior and small manicured lawn. "She's in the north unit," he tells them, pointing to the door on the left.

"Homenum Revelio." Harry is cautious, starting with the simple location spell to reveal any life within. The spell does nothing, and Hermione isn't sure if she is relieved or disappointed. Relief that they are likely not in danger, yet disappointed there is potentially less knowledge to be gained. Harry has said the writer seems to know more than he should. They haven't really discussed it, but what could he know? Could he hold information that would help Draco? A key to unlocking his unplottable location? Regardless of his intentions, information can come from antagonistic places as easily as allies.

The flat is empty and quiet, as they anticipated. Everything seems genuinely undisturbed at first glance. "I feel a bit strange, going through Penelope's home this way," Hermione says a she rifles through a kitchen drawer, but it certainly doesn't stop her from continuing her search, Draco's safety and freedom driving her forward.

The three split off in the small space, each performing various spells and charms to different ends. "None of the protections held," Harry comments to them both. "I suppose it really is my family wards that are the strongest at Grimmauld."

Severus snorts, seeming to have some opinion on Harry's family, but keeping it to himself.

There are no traces, physical or magical, left behind. The writer is careful, leaving no footprints or spell residue. The most telling information in their initial sweep is that the wards all fell completely. If magic can evaporate, that is how completely they were swatted away.

They are ready to leave, disappointed, when Hermione notices a photo framed and resting against the mantle. It's innocent enough, nothing special: Just Penelope standing in front of the potion shop, waving at the camera. She likely would have looked over it, except that the frame is leaning against the fireplace stone rather than propped on its easel. As fastidious as her employee has proven to be, it strikes her as odd. Has it been touched? Picked up? Examined? There is no dust to be disturbed, the entire house charmed to repel against it, but, beyond the disuse of its easel, the frame is the only one amongst the photos displayed that is not at a perfect angle to the wall.

She studies closer, taking in any detail that might have given the trespasser pause. The only part of the store visible is the large front window and half of the door. Not even the name of the business can be seen. However, written just next to Penelope's head is the small sign that she knows reads 'Proprietors Severus Snape and Hermione Granger', of which only  _her_  name is visible within the frame.

So, she thinks, it connects her with the owner of the house.  _Is that relevant_? she wonders. She's already connected to Harry, the lead investigator, but, she reasons, if  _Hermione_  were searching a scene and found a person of interest connected by two threads within the web, she would take certainly take notice.

Almost feeling arrogant for seeing herself as a linchpin, Hermione, instead, points out the more obvious, "They might know who lives here," and shows the frame to the wizards.

"And they know she works for you," Severus says quickly. She had been silently hoping he wouldn't find that so immediately obvious. As if his opinion on the matter supports whether or not anyone else would take note.

She chews her lip, contemplating. Finally, she asks, "Do you think this puts us in more danger?" She says 'us' because any peril she might attract is immediately pulled down upon the heads of anyone near her. Harry was already involved as the head investigator, but this might change the game.

Her friend considers her question. "I doubt more than any we were already in. Though, I would bet a thousand Galleons you see another letter this week."

He sounds incredibly confident, and Hermione trusts Harry's instincts as surely as he trusts her knowledge. She nods. "I'll let you know."

They hadn't realized it, but Severus has disappeared during their exchange and now emerges from Penelope's bedroom carrying a small satchel.

At their questioning look, he clears his throat and, quite obviously, avoids their eyes.

"Girlfriend send you on an errand, Snape?" Harry needles him, never able to avoid an opportunity to make Severus uncomfortable.

"It's of no consequence," her partner says, quite formally, and she snickers at him, catching a glimpse of blue lace that wasn't quite tucked in at the top.

"She sent you after more knickers, didn't she?"

His face goes pink, and Hermione indulges a little in understanding just why Harry likes to get under his skin.

"Well," he clips, "if that is quite all?" Harry and Hermione snicker together, taking far too much joy in his discomfort. Seeming to steel himself and switching to a wicked grin, he finishes, "It seems there is a witch in a questionable state of dress minding our shop. That just begs my… attention."

Harry screws up his face, and Hermione would swear she hears him mutter, "eww", under his breath.

"Mind the countertops," she plays along. "At least wipe them down when you're through."

"Oh, we are beyond countertops, Miss Granger. You might want to  _Scourgify_  your work desk when next you balance the books. For purely theoretical reasons." With one last nod, he disapparates away.

"They aren't really… I mean, in the  _shop_ ….?"

Hermione looks over at Harry's very troubled face and laughs. She's not amused at the threat to the sanitation of her office, but Harry's expression is priceless. She can't help but poke the bear, as it were. "Oh, they very much are," she laughs. "Don't think for a moment I won't be heeding his advice. I scrubbed the front counter five times last week, just in case."

"That is a mental image I never needed."

"If you've a pensieve on hand, I could give you a memory."

She's still chuckling, and he looks even more horrified. "You  _saw_  them? Saw  _Snape_?!"

"In the very pale flesh."

He snorts at her. "Well, you do seem to have a thing for pasty, brooding, Slytherin gits…"

She smirks, not even interested in denying the truth of the comment, but, thinking of Theo Nott, retorts, "Right back at you, Potter."

Regardless that they are both a little frustrated with the case, but looking forward to rejoining their respective snakes, they both have a soft grin when they spin in place and pop back home.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you reading and reviewing and being very patient with me and my inconsistent update schedule. Warning: brief mention of self harm in this chapter
> 
> And I have been terrible about A/N on this site, but I want to make sure and give gratitude to LightofEvolution who beta'd this for me and In Dreams who was my alpha during the process

The Daily Prophet is quiet in the coming days. Harry is careful to divulge little to nothing about their ongoing search for a way to Draco's freedom.

He also continues to report directly to Shacklebolt, much to Robards' irritation. Unfortunately, that is an easy thing to maintain because there is little to nothing to report.

One thing they can all agree on: Whatever magic was used to place Draco into the portrait-guarded room is either very old or very dark, perhaps both.

Their efforts amongst the scholars and masters of charms, hexes, curses, and traditional family protections have brought them repeatedly to dead ends or deeper questions. The only break through they have enjoyed comes to them from the Unspeakable team that has been dispatched to assist them. Three days before, they were able to breach the old Malfoy wards to reveal a sub-foundation of the Essex house. For the first time, they can see a physical barrier between them and Draco's room. However, having not been able to find any point of entry, it almost feels worse to be so close yet have little hope on the horizon.

Living with Draco, seeing him as he starts to deteriorate into a depressed state, is becoming hard to bear. The disappearance of his final apple seems to have pushed him far past melancholy and into a place Hermione has never seen from him. His emotional mask has collapsed almost permanently, at least in regards to Hermione. Oh, he might slip back into his usual swagger if Harry comes to the room, but as soon as the door closes, leaving Draco and Hermione alone in their private space, his face falls and his shoulders slump.

"If it comes down to it," he tells her one afternoon, "I have the razor."

Hermione had been reading a book of protection charms but now looks up at her companion.

"I'm sorry?" She's distracted, now spending almost all of her downtime on research. Severus, she knows, has been doing the same, while Penelope keeps their storefront operational.

"The razor. If it comes down to it." He points at the rapidly depleting bowl next to his over half empty carafe. "Once the pear is gone, I'll know I don't have long. It's usually my last choice. So, when it goes, I'm just saying… beyond starvation, I do have an option."

It finally clicks, just what he means, and Hermione bolts off the bed. "Draco Malfoy, you stop that this instant!"

He shrugs at her, the remnants of his façade sheltering his panic from her gaze. "I'm just trying to be prepared, Granger. A contingency plan."

"Well, I don't particularly care for your plan! You haven't given up on me, have you?" She appeals to him. "I've never found a question I can't answer eventually. Plus, Bill is speaking to the curse breakers guild in Havana-"

"Bill already said it isn't a curse."

"-and Severus has that conference in Milan next week-"

He scoffs. "Because his conference in Rome was so helpful. Yes, let's put our Galleons on Italy to save me."

"-and McGonagall went to her Charms mentor in the States just yesterday-"

"Not to give him credit, but I'd have thought Flitwick would have at least had some inkling if it was Charms related."

"-and I was just reading this chapter on 18th century protection charms, and… Dammit, Malfoy, have some faith!" She's agitated by his constant interruptions and lack of confidence, but the look on his face, when she finally notices, brings her up short.

"Hermione, it's been months," he stresses, low and serious. "I have so much faith in you, love, but some puzzles just don't have a solution."

"This one does!" she insists. "It has to!" She falters, looking around the room, mind spinning. "We're so close. We have to be. We know where you are for Merlin's sake! There are probably Unspeakables not twenty feet above you even now!" She points frantically to the space over his head.

"Hermione, I'll give you as long as I can. I certainly-" His voices catches and he swallows, but he covers his falter with his handsome grin. "I would prefer if you can find your way to me, but…" He clears his throat, trying once again to phrase his sentiment. "I simply feel it's important to consider all eventualities."

She laughs, but it comes out choked. "You sound like me."

With a boyish grin, he comments, "You know what they say about couples beginning to resemble each other."

Merlin, that hurts. The idea of 'them', of what they could have, if only she could find the answer, is as much motivating as it is devastating.

He changes the subject slightly, and she's not sure if she's aggravated or relieved. "Has anything more happened at Clearwater's home?"

Hermione hesitates, still reeling from his comments, but ultimately decides she will allow him to lead the conversation away from his macabre ponderings. "Nothing more. After the initial attempt, no one has tried to re-enter the wards."

"No reason to, I suppose. I'm obviously not there. And the letters?"

"Harry received one yesterday." She's not sure why she hadn't mentioned it to him. She would imagine at this point it's just so common an occurrence, she barely takes note. "The writer asked if that ruse was 'for his benefit' and how much of the Aurors' efforts are in protecting you or just trying to trap him."

Draco considers the phrasing, "All signs point to Death Eater."

She nods. "It is starting to seem that way. Unless it's just a ploy to confuse us."

He snorts. "No offense, Granger, but your lot is too full of Gryffindors to be that cunning."

His smile is genuine again, and Hermione is very relieved to see it. His moods, shifting from playful to desolate, are sometimes hard to navigate.

She always wanted a man with emotional range. Be careful what you wish for, and all that…

"Are you going anywhere today?" he asks. She can tell he's trying to sound casual, but there is a hopeful quality underneath.

It makes her very happy to reassure him. "Nowhere. I'm yours all day."

"You're mine anyway," he asserts, and she giggles at his mock possessive behavior.

"All yours," she confirms.

He mutters, and she pretends she doesn't hear for both their sakes, "For as long as I'm alive."

* * *

**Miss Hermione Granger**

Hermione looks around, not sure if she wants to open this while she's alone, or perhaps that she prefers it this way. Only her name is visible on the exterior of her delivery, written in elegant script.

She's alone in her potions lab at the shop when the owl arrives. Severus is just back from an unsuccessful trip to Milan and is not expected to arrive until later in the afternoon. Penelope is out front with three customers that all seem to have very specific and rather difficult needs. As soon as the parchment is untied from the owl's leg, she recognizes the crisp and perfectly aligned edges that accompany every anonymous letter they have received.

She's careful as she snaps the wax that holds it in place, sealed with a simple square press, no emblem to give her any clues. She reads on.

**It is uncharacteristic of me to place either faith or assumptions on anyone, especially on those of your background.**

She bristles immediately, feeling a suddenly slimy quality to every letter previously received.

**However, over the course of these many weeks, I have learned many things. It appears, Miss Granger, that you are still functioning in a research assistant capacity to Mister Potter. Not officially, of course. Your name does not appear amongst any Ministry roster. No, I would wager this is more of a personal calling on your part. A habit you are not able to break.**

**It is to my fortune that this is the case. Potter, the consummate hero, might be inclined to ignore this message. Or, worse, to take it upon himself to change the course I have plotted. No, I believe it should be you in which I place my confidence.**

**Before we get ahead of ourselves, I will need something from you. A show of your good faith before I give mine.**

**I would like to request a meeting. The initial location, you may choose. I imagine you think I mean you harm. That is not the case, but likely it would merely waste ink to attempt any convincing here. Name a location, and I will tell you more. What I must insist, is two part:**

**First, I require you to find me outside of Wizarding London. I have an undetermined portkey at my disposal, however, it will only work thrice. Think carefully, Miss Granger, I cannot afford any near misses. There are wizarding communities through Europe that I am sure would be sufficiently secure.**

**Second, you will not bring Mister Potter or anyone else connected to the Ministry. I have something to ask of you. I believe, from what I know of you, that you might find my pragmatism to your liking, but not everyone agrees with pragmatic notions.**

**Draco Malfoy is currently within my power to reach. Send word with the owl where to meet.**

Hermione startles, having just noticed the anonymous owl is still perched on her work bench, eyeing her in that curious yet predatory way these birds have. This is the first time the animal did not depart as soon as its letter was delivered.

She ponders for a moment. Meeting the anonymous writer alone, outside of familiar wizarding locations, is an incredibly foolish thing to consider. He would have her believe this is for Draco's best interest. His salvation. Can she trust that to be the case? They have never once considered the author to be anything but a villain. The letters up until now have been vague, if a little threatening. Could they have misinterpreted? Or perhaps, that was the intent to the tone of the messages while the writer gleaned whatever information he was looking for.

Images of Draco, staring out longingly into her room, his meager water supply over half depleted, haunt her daily. If there is even a chance to rescue him, how could she even consider not taking it?

Hermione has always been foolish enough to take risks, to charge bravely into possible demise. It's what landed her in Gryffindor, she would suppose. No self-respecting Ravenclaw, no self-serving Slytherin, would make this leap.

A Hufflepuff, perhaps. Their loyalty is enough to eclipse good sense.

With a jab of her pen on the bottom of the same parchment, she gives the writer an answer.

**Today,**  she writes,  **near the residence of the muggle Matriarch. Specifically, at the Queen Victoria Memorial. No portkey required if you have a bus pass. You know who I am, so I will forego wearing anything specific. I will be there in one hour.**

Hermione rolls the parchment back into a scroll and taps her wand on the wax seal, warming it until it congeals together once again. Inviting this unknown, presumed Death Eater to muggle London, her turf as it were, is the best way she can imagine to put them on some sort of equal footing. She almost snorts to herself, imagining a marked and masked Death Eater, sitting on the top of a double decker bus, hands folded in his lap, and some nameless muggle child putting sticky fingers on his robes.

Hermione has always believed humour and flippancy are some of the strongest weapons to combat fear.

Looking around the shop, she's trying to find an excuse of sorts. She promised the wizards in her life she wouldn't be alone, and she feels a little bad about that, but not enough to let this opportunity pass. Noticing a nearly empty jar of shrivelfig, she snags it from the table and approaches the front of the shop.

"Penelope?"

Her employee looks up and smiles her strained 'customer service' smile. Beside her, an elderly witch is shuffling through the jars of dried Doxy eggs.

"Hermione, hi. I was just explaining to Mrs. Rotterheim here that the egg shipment was all harvested on the same day."

Hermione nods, supporting the information. "Yes, Severus collected them himself."

"There's always a bad batch," the other woman mutters, and Penelope discreetly closes her eyes and takes one quick, calming breath.

Hermione stifles a snicker at the poor witch's frustration. "I just need to run out and grab some Shrivelfig. Can you handle the shop?" She shows the jar, tipping it back and forth to illustrate how very close to empty it is, then shrugs, as if to say 'no choice but to go by myself.'

"I suppose, if you think you'll be alright," Penelope works out slowly.

Already on her way to the door, Hermione waves her off. "Just a quick errand. I'll be back before you even notice."

"Too late," Penelope answers back, and Hermione just laughs, pretending she has no idea what she could mean beyond the casual observation.

Hermione is aware that there are at least three wizards who would be very upset with her right now. Possible four. Theo has become a bit protective, himself, over time. If nothing else, he seems to want her to be safe on Draco's behalf.

She travels by Muggle method, wasting no time and trying to reach the monument before her mystery Death Eater. She wants to be able to watch her surroundings, looking for questionable or suspicious characters.

Unfortunately, expecting as she was to have the upper hand, she is disappointed.

She sees it as soon as she reaches the famous structure. A scroll, sealed with an anonymous circle of red wax. The steps are surprisingly clear of people. She realizes once she sees the parchment, her name written in the same neat script she has come to recognize, that a repelling spell was likely cast to keep unsuspecting muggles away.

Hermione is cautious as she picks up the parchment, muttering a wandless detection spell, looking for any hexes or ill will imbued into the paper. It reveals nothing, and she takes the scroll in hand, keeping her eyes on her surroundings, panning the area for anyone or anything strange.

**Now I know you are serious. Or, if not, at least curious. What is your stake in this, I wonder? To what lengths will you go to see him free? Sometimes, what must be done is frowned upon by the Ministry and those who control it. Will you aid me in this? Will you do what needs to be done?**

Well, that's not cryptic… She wonders what grey area he believes she will cross. If he believes she would harm anyone for the greater good, he must have her confused with Dumbledore.

**You will find me, if you wish, by accepting the next message I send you. Make yourself available to my owl, and all will be explained. I would advise you not mention any of this to Potter or Kingsley at this juncture. You realize, do you not, what is at stake? Draco's life will be forfeit without my assistance. Unfortunately, I cannot manage it alone. I am choosing, cautiously, to put my faith in you, Miss Granger. I hope it is not misplaced.**

She looks up, scanning the muggle streets. He mentioned Shacklebolt by given name. Could he be a friend after all? Perhaps this is not a Death Eater, but someone with a more benevolent motivation. Even a sympathizer.

The Parkinsons? Pansy has all but disappeared after the war, shamed and ridiculed by her insistence during the battle that they give up Harry to save themselves. Hermione has felt sympathy for the young woman. After all, did Harry not do just that of his own volition? Unwilling to weigh the lives of many against his single existence? If we want to consider pragmatism, Parkinson certainly showed it in spades.

Perhaps Andromeda. As a member of the Black family, perhaps she knows more than anyone thinks about the protections of the old family. Why the ruse then? Hermione wonders. Why the pretense? Andromeda had claimed not to have any knowledge of family protection rites. Hermione supposes that anyone who fought for the light is likely be wary of admitting to the potentially Dark magic used for this spell. Perhaps she is concerned that a unfailing hero like Harry wouldn't allow whatever magic needed to free her nephew?

Or, she thinks, maybe this is all an elaborate trick, and Hermione is walking into an Avada. But what would be the purpose? Who could have motivation to both condemn Draco to death and also target Hermione? Yes, the Malfoys were seen as traitors in the end, but this seems a great deal of effort for any of the Death Eaters at large. Putting herself in their shoes, Hermione would think they would have more to occupy themselves, such as staying hidden and finding a place they won't be hunted like dogs.

Perhaps if it was someone like Bellatrix? One of Voldemort's closest few? But for the Death Eaters as yet unaccounted for, mostly third string acolytes, saving their own lives would likely trump any need for revenge.

She realizes she's been wandering mindlessly away from the Memorial and finds herself in Hyde Park. The repelling charm does not seem to extend this far, and the green landscape is flush with families and tourists enjoying the last days of summer. Is she being watched? Her mystery wizard, friend or foe, could be anyone. That man with the small dog by the bench… the woman gazing at the Horse at Water statue… did she just look over this way? Hermione feels paranoid. Does she accept the next parchment? Does she follow an unknown source down this particular rabbit hole?

An obnoxious sound jars her from her thoughts. A ring tone, she realizes. Her ringtone. Digging into her pocket, she finds Harry's name in type on the screen.

"Hey, Harry." She tries to sound casual.

"Hermione, where the hell are you!"

She winces. "I just had to run out-"

"For shrivelfig?! The shrivelfig that Severus says you have three jars of in the back stock?!"

"Look, Harry, I just had to check up on something, alright? You know how I get when research strikes."

"Oh, don't use that line on me, Hermione Granger, like I don't know you better than anyone. You are not in the sodding library right now no matter what you might like to imply!"

She rolls her eyes. It is terribly hard to lie to someone who's known you without boundaries for almost a decade. Hermione notices she has reached the tree line, and ducks just inside lest any muggles overhear the odd conversation about shrivelfigs and the like.

"Harry, I'm sorry, but I'm fine. I'm in public, lots of people around. You're going to have to trust me." As she says this, an owl is swooping down through the canopy. Should she tell Harry about the message? The writer says she will have to accept his next message to move forward. Will it be an invitation of sorts? A location? She sighs into the phone. "If anything happens, you'll be the first to know alright? I have my mobile and my DA galleon on me."

"I don't like this," he grouses across the airwaves.

She grins into the phone, holding it between her shoulder and her ear, as the owl lands on a low branch beside her. "None of us like it, Harry," she says, reaching for the parchment, "but we can't keep messing about. I have to go, alright? Draco is running out of time-"

She would say more, a proper goodbye, but feels the pull at her navel and the lush canopy of Hyde Park starts to swirl away.

* * *

"Well!?" Snape is glaring at Potter, waiting for a response. "What did that ridiculous witch have to say for herself?"

Harry stares down at the phone, not sure how concerned he ought to be. "She… hung up on me."

Theo looks at him in question, waiting for clarification most likely. Harry clears his throat and tries to calm the other men in the room. "She needed to go just then. It sounded like in a hurry," he says. "She must be on to something. Said she was… researching."

He looks up at Snape, who is eyeing him intently, and tries to give a reassuring smile. Harry trusts Hermione with his very life… He's just not entirely sure he trusts her with her own.

"Can you locate her with that muggle nonsense?" Theo is pointing to the phone in his hand, looking wary and disbelieving. Harry was always a rubbish at hiding his concerns.

He shakes his head. "Some people can. There's technology that can do it, but nothing I have."

"Well, hell of a lot of good that does us," he snipes back. "You better fix this, Potter. What am I going to tell Draco-"

"Dear Merlin, nothing! Just… don't tell him anything, yet," he says quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. "Let her finish… whatever this is she's maybe found. He's just going to panic if you say anything now."

Theo grunts, agreeing but obviously unhappy. Snape continues to eye him. "And Miss Granger?" he asks. "Should we not be concerned for her in his stead?"

Harry looks down at the phone in his hand, the Call Ended message still showing, and sighs. "I hope not," is the best he can do.


	25. Chapter 25

She falters when she lands, the portkey having been unsuspected and jarring, and takes a knee.

"Expelliarmus."

Hermione feels her wand sail from out of her back pocket at the softly spoken spell. Before she can process what is happening, she hears the dull thud as the vinewood hits the palm of a wizard.

She looks up, finding herself in a low lit and sparsely decorated room. It appears to be a study of sorts. Currently it is outfitted with little more than a desk, at which she is eye-height, though there is certainly room for more furnishings. On the corner of the lone desk, just out of reach, is an inkwell, feather quill lying beside it, and a stack of parchments with notably crisp edges. Behind the desk, stands a wizard in black nondescript robes with blond, very-descript, very familiar, hair.

"Lucius…"

He smiles at her, and her blood runs cold.

"Miss Granger."

Slowly, Hermione rises to her feet. She is cautious in movement, but her mind is racing, taking in the surroundings more fully. The phone in her hand, a subtle peek down to check, is showing absolutely none of the little life giving 'bars' that indicates a signal. There is a door to her left, but she would have to clear the corner of the desk to reach it, the awkward angle of which would slow her down. There are no real windows to speak of, just a block of nearly opaque glass very close to the ceiling, a haze of distorted sunlight highlighting dust motes swirling in the air.

Indicated by the position of the 'window', they might be underground, but she can't know for sure. This might also account for the poor signal on her mobile.

A bookcase stands behind the desk, only half full of large, heavy tomes, old enough that their edges are frayed, and they sport no titles on the spines. Draco's father is standing just in front of the shelves of books, only the desk and another chair between them.

He's alive. Lucius Malfoy is alive.

She's reeling, heart pounding, and brain confused. He's alive, and he's been tracking her, tracking all of them, for weeks.

"Oh, do sit down, girl. I can hear you thinking from here." He snaps it out like a command, but there is the slightest hint of something else beneath. Exasperation? No… Amusement. He's amused by her panic. That's enough to make her more angry than afraid.

"I do believe I'll stand, thank you very much."

"You're more than welcome," he quips back, grinning, and she bristles at his continually bemused behavior.

She's about to say something further, but holds her tongue when he simply pulls back on the chair that is tucked under the desk, and, with all the kingly grace of his ancient and noble house, takes a seat.

Sitting straight and tall, Lucius folds his hands on top of the desk and gives her a look, one perfect eyebrow lifting in question. "The chair will neither bite nor hex, I assure you."

With a huff and a lot less grace, Hermione flops herself down into the chair across from the man, eyeing him in suspicion all the while.

"Thank you for meeting me," he begins, but Hermione already has a proverbial bone to pick.

"Meeting you?! You abducted me! I never would have accepted... Where am I?!"

"You are in London, much, I'm sure, to your surprise. Beneath a muggle structure, this was once a meeting place for our dear departed Tom Riddle, many years ago. Before he had a following and a mortality complex and that...  _face_  of his." Lucius wrinkles his own visage in apparent distaste at what Lord Voldemort had become.

She snorts, unable to stop herself. Her habit of tearing down evil with mockery is apparently a commonality between them. She's annoyed to see that he grins just a little wider. "And why, exactly," she asks haughtily, "have you brought me to your little boys' club den?"

"Ah, ah, no reason to be sexist, my Dear. Bellatrix, after all, was the most treasured amongst us. Riddle had no qualms in utilizing the fairer sex to his ends."

"Club house, then," she amends with a frustrated roll of her eye. "What do you want from me?"

"Now that, Miss Granger, is the question that needed to be asked from the start." She opens her mouth to retort, already settled into the rhythm of their back and forth, when he holds up his hand for silence. There is enough politeness in the gesture that she waits for him to continue. "What I require is your assistance. I need you to help me save my son."

To say she is taken aback would be accurate, but not nearly a strong enough phrase. She had been so sure, for weeks, that whoever sent these letters was an evil Death Eater. Faced with the man before her, Riddle's mark on his arm, she was still nothing but certain since she landed almost literally at his feet, that her life was in danger. His entire demeanor has changed, however, at the mention of Draco, and Lucius Malfoy is eyeing her in anticipation.

"Do you know what happened to him precisely?" It might be a silly question for her to ask, the answer seeming to be an obvious 'yes', but how much does he know? What part did he play? Was he, as they have theorized, the one who trapped him?

"Better than I'd like to," he says, pained. "I am looking for your confirmation, of course, but can I assume he is trapped in an unplottable location, a window of sorts his only outlet."

"He is…" she says slowly.

"You are rumoured to be an intelligent witch, Miss Granger. Have you surmised how he has landed in this position?"

"Severus told us of the family protection rites and our research has all supported that. He had thought you, actually, to be responsible."

"Ah, Severus, my dear friend. He is well?"

It's bizarre, she thinks, this entire conversation. Are they to exchange pleasantries now? With a furrowed brow, she answers, "He is. We own an apothecary in Diagon."

"Together, yes? How delightfully ironic, don't you think?"

"I suppose…"

Lucius waves the conversation away like imaginary smoke in the air and returns to his point. "Apologies, I am wasting time with trivialities. My son is waiting for us."

"We've been trying to find a way inside, break through the wards and protections in Essex-"

"Essex? My dear girl, whatever are you looking for there? Oh," he answers himself, realizing. "I see. You will not find him in Essex. That room is long since abandoned."

"We won't… what?"

"The oubliette in Essex was damaged ages ago. In one of your little… muggle skirmishes."

Hermione bites down hard on her tongue rather than chase her ire on that comment.

"I did not, unfortunately," he continues, "create the spell to hide Draco away. It was my dear 'Cissa, I'm afraid. I could not be there for her then. I'd thought to protect them both, you see, by leading that beast, Greyback, away. I'd no idea she would do something so desperate."

"Narcissa… is that… She wasn't murdered at all," Hermione knows. It is a statement, lacking the lilt of a question. "She sacrificed herself."

The elder Malfoy nods, and suddenly his eyes are sad. "She did, my beautiful flower. I'd have gladly offered my blood in her place, but she didn't think to consult me." He chuckles sorrowfully. "She more than often did not, come to think of it. Her mind was her own."

"Mister Malfoy, wherever he is… Can you get Draco out?" Hermione's heart is hammering in her chest. After everything… the old masters and experts and professors, the curse breakers and ancient tomes, it all leads to Lucius Malfoy in a muggle basement. Could it be this simple? That the man will just have the answers and Draco can be safe and free?

"What you need to understand," he begins, more stern than before, as if he has collected himself from the delicate nature of his own sadness, "is that this type of protection, this Blood Magic, is unique amongst the old families. This is not a Malfoy rite, but a Black. To make it even more complex, it has been altered."

"Altered… by whom?"

He nods in answer and continues. "I believe I can attribute that to Bellatrix. Likely something she did when she was younger, perhaps while she and my lovely Narcissa lived in their parents' home. The witch you knew...you would never believe, but she was brilliant in her day. Before her time in Azkaban rotted away her mental state. it has taken me some time to learn exactly what must be done. Every family had their own specific methods for survival, you understand, and Dear Bella made for a particularly difficult puzzle."

She nods. "But you've found it then?" She asks, hopeful and excited for the first time in weeks. "You know how to reverse the spell."

"It is not a matter of reversal, Miss Granger. The old magicks are fair in all things. Matter for matter, life for life. His mother's sacrifice saved him from death, the circumstances of which only she had known. Mine will complete the circle so Draco may live."

"Wait…" She catches on quickly to his meaning. "You mean to be a blood sacrifice?" Hermione is dumbfounded, staring down the austere man before her. He has hidden away for over a year only to give up everything for Draco? Clearly, Lucius Malfoy is not exactly the man she thought. "Surely, there is another way."

"Of course there is," he says with all the pomposity as if she announced that dry reds pair well with beef. "Magic is an organic thing, abundant in choices. However, we do not have the years to explore them. Even if i knew the physical location of the Black oubliette, the magic that is sustaining him, bound and paid for by the affection my wife poured out for our son, is deteriorating, using itself up with each passing hour. There is no luxury of time in the archaic rites, Miss Granger. The earth wants life in exchange for life. I mean to give it."

"I can't just let you…"

Is he mad? Hermione can't believe he could discuss this so casually, as if it won't destroy his son even as it saves him. "You have to know that Draco would never be the same if I just let you do this!"

"I'm afraid," he sneers, "my son will have to find his way to forgive me without the benefit of my formal apology. Do pass that along, won't you? I'm sure he has reason enough to resent me. This should not affect him a great deal more."

"It's as if you don't even want to try to stay alive," she comments, thinking she is making a snide observation, but landing very much on the truth.

"I truly do not wish to remain, no. My wife was taken from me, and I want nothing more than to join her. More practically, my life as I knew it, is over. All I have left is my legacy. My son. I will gladly trade my existence for his."

He considers her a moment, then, seeming to make a decision, asks, "Am I remiss in assuming you will be here to help Draco pick up the pieces? You seem to have given much to the task of rescuing him. And do not think it has escaped my notice how familiar you speak of him, his given name falling easily from your tongue. Is it presumptuous on my part to believe you have your own affection for him?"

"I..." She flushes a little. "No, you're not wrong. But," she argues, more forcefully, "I can't replace you. You're his family!"

"And yet you must, or he will have no one. You will not change my mind. I will join my 'Cissa across the veil, and Draco will be rescued from his purgatory." Lucius sighs then, studying her face and whatever he sees there. "You can't save everyone, Miss Granger. This streak of heroics, this is why you were sorted into Godric's house rather than Ravenclaw, as many of us thought you better suited," he adds with a knowing raise of his brow.

Hermione allows herself to smile and quips, "Been gossiping about me, have you?"

He chuckles at her, and it is striking how much he sounds like his son. Shifting his weight, he confides, "Severus and I found distraction where we could, during the war. I didn't know his true loyalties, but somehow I knew his passion for the cause was not as it seemed. He equally did not trust me with his secrets, yet knew my own priorities lay with my family. We found it... amusing... to discuss the players on both sides in frivolous terms. As if war was merely a game of croquet. It helped to soften the blow when we faced loss, if everything was treated so flippantly, you see."

"I find myself making light of tragedy to much the same ends," she admits, fully aware she is bonding with a man who tried to kill her years before. Maybe, she'd like to think, he wasn't really trying that hard? It's a naive hope, perhaps, but reconciling him any other way is nearly impossible.

"There is a ritual that must be performed," he says abruptly, returning to the point. "Unless you will sanction murder of another, my death will be the only option if Draco is to live."

Hermione chews her lip, considering her next question. "Why haven't you done it then? Why make him suffer all these months?"

He looks affronted. "I'll have you know I spent a year believing my child was dead, witch. My wife and only son, slaughtered for my mistakes. I have spent the past year in various states of inebriation and despair. It was only after Mister Potter began investigating the situation that I was able to suspect the truth. The Daily Prophet gave me enough to start to hope. I began sending the letters immediately, trying to gauge the situation."

"I suppose that was you who attempted to cross the wards at Grimmauld?"

Lucius nods. "Of course. Breaking through the Black wards was easy enough. I am recognized as family, after all. The Ministry wards are out of date and virtually the same as when I sat the Hogwarts board. It was the Potter family wards that I could not break."

"And at Penelope's home?"

"Oh, yes, you're little ruse," he muses at her. "Clever using the Nott wards, but of course Thoros chose to reconstruct his, ashamed as he was of his recent relatives. He used the Malfoy wards at the base."

Hermione nods, taking that in. All of that makes sense. She certainly has a clearer picture of what he's been doing all this time. "To my original question, though... If you were intent to sacrifice yourself, why the wait? Once you realized he was alive?"

"I needed direct access to Draco through whatever item was used as his entrance, usually a painting or mirror in these old rites. A spell must be performed at his point of entry as I cast my part. Which," he says pointedly, "leads us back to you."

"Mister Malfoy, please, just come back with me to Grimmauld. We can talk to Harry-"

"No. I have no doubt that Mister Potter will make attempts to help my son, but not at any and every cost. He will refuse to see what must be done. If I am lucky, he will merely delay the rite. If I, and Draco, happen to be terribly unlucky, he will arrest me as a rogue Death Eater. Draco will starve to death, Miss Granger, unless he asphyxiates before, alone and afraid, his lungs burning for air." He says this harshly, but it is obvious the point is to scare her into action, not because he is not disturbed by the image of his son gasping for air.

"These oubliettes," he goes on, "they are ancient rituals, never intended to last for long and always understood they come at a price. I can only imagine how desperate my poor 'Cissa must have been to enact such a rite."

Hermione watches the wizard as he speaks. He has no trouble slipping into his snobbish and entitled persona, but every time he thinks of Narcissa, his façade crumbles to dust. She believes him when he says he would rather die than continue on here. She just can't imagine what this will do to Draco, to know both of his parents lost their lives in exchange for his.

"Don't you at least want to see him?" she tries. "To say goodbye, if nothing else."

"How cruel do you think me?" he snaps, but quickly amends. "I suppose, in retrospect, you would think me quite cruel, actually. No, Miss Granger, I do not wish to force that upon my son. He will only suffer more guilt if he feels there was a way he could stop my course. That is why I need you. You are a logical girl, are you not? But for all your logic, your heart bleeds. You won't sacrifice him, not when you could let me sacrifice myself instead. You will justify that I deserve it, and perhaps I do. But Draco? Draco does not. His sins are only in doing his duty by me, by his family. Do not let him suffer my mistakes more than he has."

"You make a compelling argument." She grimaces, knowing in her heart she is bending, she is considering that she can allow this, if it is truly the only way to save Draco's life.

"Do not look so distraught. If not you, I would find someone else to assist me. You certainly would not deter my plans."

After a long pause, she asks, "How would this work then? Provided I were to agree."

Lucius shrugs, an oddly common gesture, and one that, again, reminds her very sharply of his son. "For your part, it will be easy. A simple spell cast upon the portrait, making it amenable to becoming a door rather than a window, as it were. For me, a bit more gruesome, but you will not be here to witness it."

Hermione searches the man's face. She is perplexed, completely befuddled, by the turn of events. For weeks, they thought they were under the lens of a murderer, being watched by a Death Eater out for revenge. She supposes they were not too far off, with the exception of the revenge.

"Why didn't you approach us more directly? Why all this... cloak and dagger?"

"Initially? I did not even believe that Draco had survived. Everything I had uncovered after the war made me believe my family was gone. When the rumours began to circulate, I dared not hope them to be true. My first letters were merely an attempt to broaden the reach of the story, to create enough sensationalism the Prophet would stay on the case."

"Wait… you were the leak to the Prophet? I was sure it was McLaggen…"

"Not initially," he both argues and confirms. "They do not run a particularly tight ship, as it were, within the Ministry. Kinglsey really should look into that… But, yes, after a fashion, I was also offering vague information to keep the focus on Draco, furthering spurning the Ministry leak to provide details as Potter progressed. However, I did not wish to approach Potter directly. I doubt he would have trusted me anymore than I trust him."

Hermione snorts at that, in clear agreement. Why in the world anyone would trust Lucius Malfoy at this point is beyond her.

Lucius gives her a look, seeming to judge her unspoken opinion, and then continues. "It wasn't until I discovered your living arrangements that I decided to chance this meeting. You are infamous for your cunning as much as your compassion, as well as recklessly pragmatic. Severus told me you once set his robes on fire."

She snickers before she can help it, then stops short. "Wait, how did he know that?"

He grins again, and it's disarming in its sincerity. "Miss Granger, Severus was a master spy. More than anyone can credit. He knew more than he could even let on to either side, lest he place himself at risk."

Her eyes widen slightly as something falls into place. "You suspected. You said you never knew his loyalties but..."

Nodding, he agrees, "I did."

"Yet you never gave him up? Even at your lowest, you kept his confidence. You know it would have lifted you in Riddle's eyes?"

His lips thin, and he pauses for the first time in their conversation. "I gave up a great many things as I tried to hold the tapestry of my life together. I sacrificed more than I should have, and I made very poor choices. But I never wanted to see my friend destroyed. You can't believe it, I'm certain, but I did my best for Draco as well. I couldn't stop his taking the mark; it wasn't up to me. All I could do was support him. The Vanishing Cabinet was broken. One does not simply fix magic like a child's toy. I assisted him from Borgin's, creating a path his Cabinet could find. The Dark Lord would likely have killed me for my trouble, but it was all I could think to do."

"You could have gone to Dumbledore," she suggests, not even angry, no accusation in her town. Curious would be more apt.

"Dumbledore had his own schemes. My son attempted to approach him. Has he ever confided that to you?" She shakes her head, unaware of that detail, and Lucius continues. "It was important, you see, that Albus die the way he had constructed, never mind that Draco, little more than a child, spent months terrified."

There is a disgruntled look on her face, and Hermione can't help a bit of sympathy. Has she not herself always thought their former Headmaster had raised Harry as a sacrifice? Placed countless students in danger, fighting a war they didn't even understand thanks to his vague and obscure lack of answers?

"I can see you falter," he says, observing her. "You will agree, will you not? For Draco?"

Hermione's eyes dart the room. Can she really do this? Condemn a man to death in exchange for another? Certainly, between the two, she would choose Draco if in her power to save only one…

"What do I tell Harry, then? Shacklebolt? How do I explain Draco's miraculous escape to the Ministry?"

Lucius considers her, an odd cock to his head. "I am dead, Miss Granger, in all the ways that matter. Why not let me be dead? Omit the truth of this, and let the wizarding world believe what it already does.

"I can't do that to Draco…"

"Then tell him. Tell him his father paid a debt to magic."

She starts to respond, but he holds up his hand again, continuing in a soothing tone. "But tell him after, my dear. Tell him once it is all done so he cannot imagine he could have saved me. I would not like to leave him guilt along with the rest of his tragic legacy."

She doesn't say anything for a long time, and Lucius leaves her to her thoughts. He is patient, surprisingly so, and she can imagine Lucius as a father, watching Draco as he began to grow and learn. Taking a step, sitting a broom, holding his first wand.

"When would," she chokes, oddly emotional over the potential death of this man she has always known as a villain. "When would I cast the spell?"

He smiles again, amusement gone, and, in its place, an expression very much like kindness, born of relief, that makes her heart hurt. "You will need to communicate with me. A way to let me know when your spell has been cast."

She thinks a moment, then reaches in her pocket. From the depths, she pulls a galleon, charmed by her much younger self to deliver messages. "I have this and there's another. Harry's, but I know where he keeps it. It's imbued with a Protean charm. It will allow us to send messages."

He reaches across the desk and accepts the coin from her. "Very clever indeed." Sliding the bit of gold into his own robes, he asks, "You will agree then? To do this? Assist me so that I might save my son?"

"I…" She pauses, swallowing and unable to hold his gaze. Squeezing her eyes closed, she takes a breath, images of Draco flashing across her face. His laugh and his leer, his face when she thinks he might weep, his every expression coils like a roll of film against the black of her closed eyes. Opening them slowly, her lips parting slightly on a sigh. "You're sure this will save him?" she asks, looking for final confirmation.

He nods at her. "I am not in the habit of sacrificing myself for nothing. This will free him, of that I am certain. I'm counting on  _you_ , Miss Granger, to save him in the end."

Hermione looks away one last time before steeling herself, grasping tight to her own resolve. "When will you be ready?"

He looks almost wistful when he says, "I've been ready a long time now. Let's not keep my 'Cissa waiting."


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so pleased by the response to last chapter! Thank you for your comments. You've made it a pleasure to share this story once again.
> 
> I also wanted to mention that this story is in the finals for an award in the Granger Enchanted Survivors FB group. If any of you reading nominated or voted for me... THANK YOU!

It's quiet when Hermione makes it home, but she should know better than to be lulled into a false sense of security.

"Granger, where the fuck were you!"

Theo is the first to chastise her, but Harry isn't far behind. Barreling into the room on his lover's heels, Harry advances right into Hermione's personal space and places his hands on her shoulders. "Are you alright? Why did you hang up on me!? Did something happen?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but Theo interrupts. "You can't just disappear like that! People worry about you. Can you imagine what I'd have to tell Draco?! He'd rip himself out of the canvas just to strangle me!"

With a bit of a cock to her head, she snipes, "Then perhaps you should run up and tell him. Save us all a lot of trouble."

"Not funny, Granger."

Hermione sighs and rubs her temples momentarily. "I know. Sorry. Look, I… I have news. Rather important news."

Both wizards perk up, and Hermione gestures that they follow her into the parlour. Harry and Theo sit together on a sofa, both glaring at her with a mix of concern and agitation. Hermione takes the fireside across from them and daintily crosses her legs.

"First, I'm fine. Nothing happened to me, but I… I think I have found the way to get Draco out."

Harry screws up his face, obviously aware there is something she's not saying, but Theo simply sits back with a soft ' _oof_ ' as his back hits the sofa. "You brilliant witch…" He grins. "Well!? What do we need to do?"

She keeps her eyes trained on Harry who is watching her intently. On the way back to Grimmauld Place, she rehearsed this. Practiced. She's decided on the truth, albeit a very vague one full of omissions.

"Alright, so… you see…" she hesitates, taking a breath. "The way to free him, Harry - I know you won't like it.  _I_  don't even like it. It's… not probably legal. Entirely. In most countries."

_That's probably true_ , she thinks. Assisted suicide is a grey area at best.

"Hermione," he says, low and with warning, "I can't sanction you to use Dark Magic-"

"No, no, I'm not, I promise. It's… sort of questionable. I think it best, with your position… that I not divulge." She looks at him warily, seeing the conflict on his face. "I need you to trust me on this, Harry, please. This… it might be the only way. If we don't do something…" She swallows and briefly closes her eyes. Her friend is aware of the danger that Malfoy is in, but she needs him to understand it in a truly visceral way.

Opening her eyes again, she zeroes in on Harry once more. "Draco is going to starve to death if he doesn't suffocate first. I don't know how long it will take, but it will happen. I'm not going to let him die, Harry." She looks at Nott as well, finding him staring intently back. "I won't. And if I have to do something… morally unclear, then that's on me."

"Merlin, Hermione, I think I'm more concerned  _now_. What are you going to do, sacrifice a bleeding goat?" It almost sounds like a joke, but the look on Harry's face is incredulous at best. Truthfully, he looks a little afraid of her.

Hermione rolls her eyes straight to the ceiling, then brings her gaze back down to her friend. "No, Harry, of course not."

"What is it then?" he snaps back. "If it's so innocent, why can't you tell me?"

"There's more than a fine line between innocent and animal sacrifice. Suffice it to say, I have help, the other party was not coerced, but neither of us can do it alone. The spell… it takes two to complete. I'll be doing part of the spell here, and the other part will be done elsewhere."

"What can I do to help?" Both Hermione and Harry turn to look at Theo. "What?" he bites out, glaring between them. You think I'm not going to be involved in this?" He looks back at Hermione, catching her gaze. "I don't care what you have to do. If you can get him out, I'll help you."

Hermione warms a little inside, heartened by the gesture. It means something just to have someone on her side. On  _Draco's_  side. "It really only requires two spellcasters, Theo, but thank you. That really means a lot."

"Wait, wait, no one said we're doing this!" Harry is glancing between them, agitated. "We're not just… agreeing to something when we don't even know what it is!"

"Harry," she says, patiently, "I don't need you to agree. That's precisely why I'm taking care of this: so you don't have to sacrifice your moral standing."

"You can't just… make those decisions, Hermione."

"But  _you_  can?" she challenges, a defined arch to her brow. "Harry, I've pretty much followed you to the ends of the earth, and believe me when I say that if you were trapped in a magic painting, I'd do a lot more than bend the rules to get you out. I'm going to do this,  _and_  I'm going to protect you from knowing about it."

He starts to argue. Hermione recognizes that stubborn set to his jaw, and she pulls out her trump card. "Theo, please." She looks at him with wide eyes, pleading. "You know I wouldn't do this lightly. It's  _Draco_ … Theo, he will  _die_  in there. He will slowly starve to death and we will only be able to watch it happen… Please, say you agree with me."

"Of course I do!" He turns then, looking at Harry with sincere and soulful eyes. "I trust Hermione, don't you? When has she ever led you astray, Potter?"

Alright, so it was a dirty play, but Hermione sees the moment Harry softens, just as Theo rubs his thumb over the back of Harry's right hand.

"You're not sacrificing a goat?" he asks in confirmation, and she smiles at him, already feeling relief.

"I promise, I will harm no animals in the rescue of Draco Malfoy." He smiles back at her then, and Theo grins broadly at the room at large.

"Great!" Nott claps his hands together and stands. "So when do we do this? Can I tell that fucker we're getting him out?"

Hermione glances at Harry and finds he still looks mildly disgruntled. Not wanting to give him a chance to argue further, she nods and agrees, "Please. I have something I need to prepare anyway."

"How long do you need?" Harry asks the question, still gazing at her with hesitation.

"Just a few moments. I need to cast a couple of charms," she answers vaguely. He nods, and she starts up the steps to the second floor, Theo already on the way ahead of her and yelling at Draco as he enters her bedroom.

"Hey, Malfoy, Granger's getting you out!"

Smiling to herself, Hermione slips into the room, snagging a galleon off her nightstand to create the new Protean charm. "You beautiful, brilliant witch!" She looks up to find Draco and Theo looking at her with awe and affection.

Unfortunately, it's then that she realizes once again what she's about to do. Looking at Draco, his platinum hair falling loose, just barely over his grey eyes, his tall solid build, long legs, and strong hands. He looks just like his father: Lucius in younger flesh. Is she doing the right thing? Can she really go through with this?

"I could fucking kiss you," Draco quips, then laughs. "And I'm going to! Merlin, just wait until I get my hands on you..." He shakes his head, looking back at Theo, the relief making his face the most beautiful she's ever seen. "I didn't want to say anything, but look at this shite."

Hermione and Theo both follow the pointer finger of Draco's right hand toward the formerly luxurious bowl of fruit. With a light gasp, she covers her mouth with her hand just as Theo mutters, "Motherfucker."

The bowl is virtually empty. A small bunch of green grapes and a pear are all she can see over the lip of the bowl. Given Draco's demeanor, she assumes there isn't much more. "It all started to disappear last night and today. The nuts too. I didn't want to say anything, but… You're just in the nick of time, Granger," Draco says with deep affection, and Hermione feels tears prick the corners of her eyes.

This is definitely the right thing, and she absolutely can fucking do this.

"Just in time," she parrots back. "I just need to cast a quick charm and prepare myself. I'll be back…"

She manages to leave before the first tear falls. She isn't sure, up until this point, if she really believed she would go through with it, allow the sacrifice and not breathe a word to Draco until the deed is done, but now she's positive: tonight, Draco will be free.

* * *

"How exactly will this work?" he asks, hesitation and excitement warring in his tone.

"The mirror... what appears as a mirror to you, should let you pass through. Any moment. When… when the wizard helping us sends me a message."

He nods, full of nerves anticipation.

Hermione is alone with Draco in her room. It's only been a few hours since she arrived back and gave Draco the news. It seems to have fully sunk in now, and he strikes her as almost nervous that his freedom is so close.

Theo fought to be here when Draco emerged, and of course she told Draco as much, lest he believe his friend to be indifferent. However, Harry seemed to agree, and Theo eventually, that it might be best not to overwhelm Draco. Solitude for over a year and then to be swarmed all at once? It might just be too much.

Not to mention, everyone seems to understand the nature of the relationship that has developed between Draco and Hermione. It is just as precarious and fragile as it is intense and significant. When she left the parlour only moments ago, Harry had reached over and taken Theo's hand, both of them looking up at her where she stood half-ascended on the steps. "We'll be here when he's ready. We'll wait until you come for us." She had nodded once, grateful for the privacy. She has enough guilt and eternal conflict already over Lucius, not to mention nerves and turmoil over the most important relationship in her life finally becoming more than a hope for the future. She's not sure she can handle much more emotion thrown into the mix.

She watches Draco step cautiously toward the barrier between them and gently lay his palm just to the inside of the frame.

As she waits, the galleon warms in her hand. The signal, she assumes. Focusing a glance down, she finds:

**Miss Granger, please tell my son**

The message stays a moment, then fades. Hermione looks back at Draco to find he is watching her. "Is it time?"

"Almost," she manages, feeling unsure once again. "Waiting for the rest of the message."

Another glow of heat, and she sees:

**That I was always proud of him**

A sob hitches in her throat that she tries to hide. She hates this: The position she's been placed in. How can Lucius believe Draco will ever forgive him, ever forgive  _her_ , for this?

After a beat, she sees the rest of the message, from one formerly dead man to another:

**And I love him far more than this wretched life**

"Wait," she says, desperate. She says it to the room and to Draco and to the gold coin, willing the message to reach him in time. "Wait! Not yet, please!"

Her eyes are wide, and she looks at Draco. His face is baffled, unsure, and then suddenly he is falling through the frame, the weight he had on his palm throwing him completely off balance. He stumbles to a stand into her room.

Hermione sobs once, hard, the galleon going cold in her hand, as she knows Lucius' body somewhere does the same. She's devastated and scared, terrified of telling Draco exactly what she has allowed to happen in order to bring him back.

But then she looks up, straight into Draco's face. Disbelief has flooded his features, like he doesn't believe he's really breathing her same air. They stare at each other, frozen in this moment that is everything they wanted, at a price he doesn't know he paid.

Then he moves, and Hermione doesn't even have time to argue before he has thrown his body against hers and buried his face into the crook of her neck, his breath coming in strangled gulps. He's weeping, warm tears wetting her neck and spreading into her hair, his hands clinging to her hard and desperate.

"Thank you," he's saying, and it hurts too much to hear. "Thank you," and, "fuck, Hermione, thank you," and, "I love you. Fuck, I love you."

She doesn't know what to say back, so she cries into his shoulder and wraps her arms around, tight as her arms allow.

"Draco," she finally says, barely able to conjure the words from her despair and guilt. "I need to tell you… you need to know… exactly what happened to you."

He shakes his head into her shoulder but doesn't let go, doesn't even relax his hold. Hermione has never been so completely relieved and happy on the heels of such bone-weary sorrow.

Then, time moving at an indiscernible pace, he's not sobbing anymore. She'd hardly even realized it had tapered off until his face turns in the crook of her shoulder and it's not tears dampening her skin, but his lips trailing wet, open-mouth kisses around the curve of her throat, up her jaw, and finally, his hands holding each side of her head, he presses his lips hard to her mouth.

There is elation here. Relief and elation and, fuck, does she want to dig her fingertips into his shoulders and devour him. All these weeks… months… wishing and hoping and worrying he might literally die in that little room, and he's  _here_. Flesh and bone and warm breath eagerly joining with hers.

"Fuck, Granger, oh my fucking Gods." He whispers obscenities and praise, adoration and devotion against her lips, broken by the kisses he takes in between. His hands are everywhere, finding places to explore and holding on like she might vanish. He cups the back of her head and strokes her cheek and runs his fingertips down the bare skin of her arms, making her shiver in his wake. She's never been kissed like this, touched quite like this.

"Please," he says, tongue tasting the corner of her lips, " _please_ , can I have you? I've waited… Fuck, I've dreamt about you so long."

"Theo…" she tries. She wants to scream, " _I as good as killed your father_!" but all she can manage in the moment is that very week argument.

"Can wait," he finishes. "Theo and Potter and the Ministry and fuck all… Nothing means more to me right now than you. Being here with you. Knowing you're real, and I'm alive."

She whimpers. What else can she possibly do with a declaration like that? She's completely overwhelmed by him and the love and devotion pouring out of him. And, Merlin save her, if she doesn't love him right back.

So she tells him, simply, in those words, that he can have anything he wants. "I love you, Draco."

He moans into her mouth and accepts the declaration for the permission she meant it to be. Running his hands down her back, over her arse, he cups her and lifts. Her legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and he is walking her backwards to the bed she promised he would have her on.

He lets her drop first, but gentle as a kitten, cupping her head and easing her fall. When he lays down, half beside her and half atop, much of the primal passion she imagined in their first coupling has dissipated. He's looking at her in awe, dragging his bottom lip against the skin of her cheeks and placing delicate, occasional kisses. This isn't what they'd discussed… fantasized about - the promises of a hard, lust filled fuck that had sent her careening into orgasm over and over again in the past weeks. This is something much more than that. How did she ever think she wasn't completely in love with him? Merlin, even when he was just a portrait to her, she was falling fast.

She's lost in him. He is pressed against her completely, the entire length of her body blanketed by his flesh and his forehead held against her hairline, the tip of his nose ticking the bridge of hers. "I waited so long. I couldn't imagine… how much I could want this."

A whimper, again. There is no expression in her vast repertoire of words that could capture how she feels at this moment. "Don't ever leave me," she asks, demanding promises to which she has no right, but wanting them anyway.

"Never," he punctuates with a kiss, hard and insistent, and then her lips are parted, and his tongue is lapping against hers.

She lets herself believe him, even though it's a promise no one can ever keep. Not to mention, when he learns what she's done? Will he still want to? She's trying hard to remember why she shouldn't do this, why she should pull away until they can speak, but the relief is at war; the desire is too tempting. He's so damned solid and alive, warm skin now touching with less reservation, one strong hand sliding down her thigh to cup behind her knee and gently bend her leg so he can press himself against her core. She groans, wanton and needy, when she feels how hard he is, how very fucking real, and envisions his beautiful body taking her as his.

_Alive._ She feels alive and knows that so is he. Before she can help it, she chokes out a sob as he suckles at her neck.

"Hermione?" He pulls back, his arms holding him barely aloft, chest brushing hers, and looks down at her in concern. He props himself on one elbow so he can cup her face, running his thumb beneath her eye. "Is it… is it too much? Merlin, I'm sorry."

He scrambles off of her, leaving her feeling bereft and guilty, and then she sobs in earnest, reaching for him with one hand as she wraps the other around herself. "Draco, please…" She wants him to come back. So many things swimming in her head, and all she knows is she needs him close until she can work through what she needs to say next.

She looks at him, vision blurry, and reaches further, stretching her arm toward him. "Please, don't go."

Draco furrows his brow in confusion, stepping cautiously closer and seating himself on the edge of the bed. He accepts her hand, but keeps a chaste distance as well. "I'm not going anywhere, Granger." He sounds a little stiff, politely reserved. "I apologize if I was carried away-"

"No! No, please don't. It's not… Draco, I have to tell you what happened. I won't… feel right. If we do this and you don't know what I know."

He nods, hand still holding hers, but doesn't relax his straight-backed posture. "Alright."

Hermione herself moves so that she is no longer half lounging on the bed, sitting beside him and holding his hand in her lap, gripping him tightly and running her thumb over the back of his hand.

"We assumed," she begins, "that your parents had cast this spell. A protection. Of course, Severus gave us information about the Malfoy rite and we naturally looked to your father. It seemed like something he'd do: protect the last Malfoy in the line, by any means."

Draco snorts. "Yes. Good ol' Lucius, always looking out for his family name," he sneers. "Did you find proof then? Wait…" His expression softens and he holds her hand harder. "Am I to be tried for Dark Magic after all? Is that why…?"

Hermione shakes her head and holds his hand even harder, glad to feel him physically cling to her, but bracing for what comes next.

"No, no you'll be fine, I promise. Kingsley gave Harry his word. Even if this was illegal, which is a bit up in the air, you will not be held accountable. No, what we found is…it wasn't a Malfoy family rite. It was a Black one."

He seems to understand, if his devastated expression is any indication, his face crumpling with his posture. "My mother…"

Nodding, she confirms. "You're mother enacted the ritual. It's how she…"

"How she died," he finishes for her. She's glad he does, not sure she could said the words. "It makes sense. That is, beyond his sense of self-preservation to our family legacy," Draco spits out with venom, "I'm sure my father would have saved himself if he could. Rotten coward. Had he not left us alone-"

"Draco," she interrupts, not wanting him to spew venom against his father. She has enough guilt over the man herself. She doesn't want her lover to have to come to terms with more than he already does. "Your father… We had it wrong. He...he didn't die then. At the battle."

She watches him swallow. He's clever, her Slytherin. She can tell he's already putting it together. "When did he die?" he asks softly.

Steeling herself with a deep intake of air, Hermione squeezes her eyes shut and answers back, just as quiet, "Today."

Draco looks forward, faced out into the room, and Hermione sits quietly beside him. Her head is a jumbled mess of responses, rehearsing so many ways forward. Does she offer condolences? Explain in further detail? Apologize?

In the end, she just holds his hand tighter, her eyes filling with tears, heavy and full, until her lashes can no longer hold them, and they cascade down her cheek, dripping from her chin. She doesn't wipe them away or draw any attention to herself, just sits quietly, wishing Draco would speak, but afraid of what he will say.

"Hey…" Hermione isn't looking at him when she feels him scoop a tear off her face with his index finger. "Hermione? Is there… is there something else?"

She looks up at him to find nothing but concern on his face. Perhaps a little sorrow. Not anger, though. No malice. "Draco, I'm so sorry," she manages, her voice breaking at the end. Speaking seems to release the sobs she was holding back, and she chokes on her next breath, folding in on herself. Before she can expect or hope or fear anything different, Draco is wrapped around her, holding her. She feels ridiculous. She should be comforting  _him_ , after all.

Eventually, she manages to wrap her arms around him and holds him against her, clinging as hard as he was, once he emerged from his painted prison. "I'm so, so sorry," she repeats into his chest. He shushes her and holds her back until her tears stop and she is able to collect herself.

"He didn't want me to tell you," she says by way of explanation. "He didn't want you to feel you could have stopped him. Didn't want to… leave you with that guilt."

"So instead he left you to bear it?" he frowns.

She shakes her head, denying his train of thought. "I think he was trying, in the end, to… I don't know… make things up to you?"

He scoffs, but he doesn't release her, his lips grazing her forehead and he speaks. "He certainly had a lot to atone for."

"He did," she agrees, then, "he wanted you to know… he said he's proud of you."

She feels his breath release, a shudder through his frame, and she knows he's more affected than he's letting on. The anger and resentment are sincere, but Draco is obviously conflicted as well, processing who his father was to him. There's a long silence, and she lets him have whatever he needs. Whatever time, whatever he will ask from her, she's here to give it.

"Did he say anything else?"

Hermione swallows. "He said he loves you," she replies quietly. "And he said he was ready… to cross the veil. He said… he misses your mother."

The shudder is unmistakable this time in that it is choking a sob, caught in his throat. Hermione just clings tighter.

"There wasn't another way?" It's a question, but she can tell he knows the answer.

"None we could find. None your father knew. He didn't want to wait. To risk that you might… starve or… worse."

"Does Potter know? I can't imagine he would agree to this? Isn't there some… Auror code that would make him disagree with human sacrifice?"

She chuckles in spite of herself, his wry comment laced with just enough of his usual snark to bring it out, unbidden. "He doesn't know. No one knows. Your father… he didn't want anyone to get in the way."

"So he came to you?" Hermione leans back now to look at him. He looks a little incredulous at the thought that Lucius Malfoy went to Hermione Granger in collaboration.

She shrugs very gently, cautiously, punctuating her answer. "He said he thought I would be pragmatic enough to see it was the best way forward. He hoped I would put your life ahead of his and agree with him."

Lifting his hands to cup her face, Draco leans in and presses his lips to hers once again, eyes closed tightly. "Thank you," he says, lips brushing against hers. "I thought I was going to die in there."

Hermione presses herself against him, colliding her mouth to his and refusing anything less than a devastating kiss. She pours her relief and her regret into this one, hoping he can read all of the sorrow she has for him but also all of the joy she is feeling to finally have him free.

When they break, he leans his forehead against hers. "I suppose Nott is waiting downstairs?"

Hermione smiles softly, hearing the mock annoyance in his voice, and knowing he's secretly itching to see the wizard he considers a close friend. "Yes. I made him wait with Harry. But I'm sure he would appreciate an update."

Draco stands, pulling Hermione up with him and runs his thumbs beneath her eyes, erasing the last of her tears. "Come on then. Let's go tell the love birds I'm not dead. I have plans for you tonight, pretty witch."

Hermione offers him a smile, full of adoration and masking her concern, hoping Draco can reconcile his anger with his sorrow, his gratitude with mourning.


	27. Chapter 27

"Mother Fucker." If such a thing can be said with reverence, Theo manages it. The phrase ends on a long breath, and then he launches himself at Draco, nearly clipping Hermione who is standing at his side. Throwing his arms around his friend, Theo claps him hard twice on the back.

Draco doesn't hesitate long before his arms circle Theo, and they embrace like brothers.

When they pull away, holding each other at arm's length, both their eyes are rimmed red. "She fucking did it," Theo comments thickly, and Draco chuckles.

"Of course she did. Brilliant fucking witch, isn't she?"

"Absolutely stellar."

Hermione is mildly shocked, wide eyes and body stiff, when Theo abandons his hold on Draco to throw himself at her almost as hard. She's not accustomed to this particular Slytherin being so emotional.

"Can you tell us now?" Theo pulls away, and the three at the threshold look back at Harry, standing by the fireplace and looking a little pensive. "Can you tell me how you did it?" he asks.

Glancing at Draco and then Theo, Hermione takes a breath. "Some of the details… are  _personal_  …to Draco," she hedges.

" _Personal?_  What the fuck… did you  _shag_  him out?" Harry barks, incredulous.

Theo offers, much more jovially, "Give him release to get him….  _Released_?"

Draco scoffs, "If that's all it took, I'd have been free  _weeks_  ago."

All eyes turn to Hermione who goes scarlet.

Clearing her throat, she tries again. "It's nothing like that." She looks over at Draco, and they both sober. With a nod, he gives his approval.

"Let's have a seat?" she offers as more of a question than anything.

"And a drink," Draco tosses out with emphasis. "Merlin's pointy fucking hat, I need a  _drink_."

Theo snickers at Draco, and Hermione smiles. Harry still seems quite serious, but he does have that tendency to be a dog with a bone until a question is answered. It's why he's a good Auror, she would suppose. Not to mention, one of the many reasons she understands him completely.

"We should… floo Severus as well," Hermione says, feeling a bit ashamed the man is still in the dark. Harry offers to contact him and steps from the room.

When she turns, Theo is already pouring scotch into five crystal tumblers. Draco doesn't hesitate before grabbing one and taking a rather long pull for a sipping liquor.

"Not even waiting to toast?" Theo asks with a chuckle, but Draco grimaces in turn.

"I  _really_ needed a drink." The mood shifts, and Theo doesn't have any more quips while they wait. Hermione settles in at Draco's side, leaning her body to touch him. She doesn't want to push too hard, expect too much. She needn't have worried: Draco quickly reaches down to take her hand and holds on tight.

"Draco." Severus billows into the room, Penelope following just behind, and Harry bringing up the rear. Their former professor doesn't slow, and, quite uncharacteristically, makes physical contact, placing his hands on Draco's shoulders and searching his face. "Are you well?"

Letting go of Hermione hand briefly, he grips his godfather's forearm. Draco nods. "I'm alright. A little hungry," he offers as an aside, a wry grin barely pulling at his lips.

"Yes, I imagine so," her partner answers, and Hermione swears the man almost smiles.

Pulling away and bringing himself back to full height, Severus searches the room, gaze landing on Hermione. "Not to give the impression I am displeased, but I'd very much like to hear the way in which you were able to break the protection."

She clears her throat. "Yes… we were just about to discuss that. Let's… We should sit. Yes. Sitting is best."

Theo is the model host, passing out perfectly poured glasses, having added a sixth for Penelope, to each person in attendance, before seating himself in the chair beside Harry's. Severus gestures for Penelope to take the only remaining single chair, choosing to stand behind her, one hand laid gently on her shoulder.

Hermione, the first time in quite a while, has a wizard with which to share a space. She greedily takes the sofa, pulling Draco down beside her. He doesn't hesitate to lay his arm around her shoulder and grip her hand, pulling it to rest on his thigh. She can feel the beat of his pulse in his wrist, her thumb laying firm against it in comfort. Hermione has a relatively physical relationship with Harry, as far as friends go, often hugging and touching platonically. However, she is struck by how grateful she is, how  _luxurious_ it is, to touch Draco's skin, to feel his warmth under her hands.

Everyone is looking at Hermione expectantly, and it makes her a bit nervous. Suddenly she's back in the potions lab at Hogwarts, and Severus is staring down his nose at her. Really, would it kill the man to sit down for once?

Clearing her throat, she begins shakily, "Strictly speaking, I didn't actually do much of anything. I was… contacted… by a wizard who said he could help. All the anonymous letters…" she swallows, "they came…" she clears her throat one last time. "They came from Lucius."

"Malfoy?" Harry clarifies, probably a bit unnecessarily. How many Luciuses does he know? She bites her tongue to stop that particular quip, not feeling it is appropriate under the circumstances.

Instead, she nods. "Yes. He was watching our progress with the case. After the war… he hadn't known Narcissa had cast the protection at first. He had hoped, though… hoped Draco was alive. He'd been looking for information for months."

"Why didn't he just come forward?" Harry asks, ever obvious and bold.

"He assumed he'd be arrested… and, then who would help Draco?" Without looking at him, Hermione squeezes her lover's hand, feeling his fingers tighten in return.

Her friend scowls at that. " _We_  would have,  _obviously_. That's a pitiful excuse. So where is he now, hmm? Does he expect to just get away with everything because he finally did something ri-"

"He is dead." Severus sounds very confident and is looking at Hermione. "He is dead, correct, Miss Granger?"

She nods, lowering her eyes and holding onto Draco ever tighter. "Yes," she answers softly, wincing when Harry barks in response, rising to his feet and hands clenched at his side. "He died to complete the spell."

"He's  _what_?! What do you mean, dead?!"

"Sit down, Harry." It's soft, but there is an expectation of being heard. Hermione watches her friend look down at Theo in question, who repeats, "Sit down, please."

"But… this isn't just alright, Nott. You can't just… murder someone for convenience! This isn't the way things are supposed to be done…"

It's a tense moment, and the rest of the room watches it play out. The relationship between them has always seemed so easy, the little of it they have allowed anyone to witness. This is a dynamic no one seems to expect, even the two players. Theo is meeting Harry's eyes, looking hard and determined, but his hand, gently laid against Harry's arm, strokes gently in tandem with his words.

"Yesterday, Draco thought he was going to die alone. Today, his father is dead in exchange for his life. You need to sit down now and listen. Please."

For just a moment, Hermione doesn't think he will. Surprising her, Harry eventually flops down, arms folded like a petulant child, but he accepts Theo's hand and holds it like an anchor. "Fine," he mutters, then turns his attention to Hermione. "Go on then."

A look passes between her and Theo, and she knows he's going to part of their lives for a very long time.

She begins again, more confidence in her voice. "After watching us for a few weeks, Lucius determined the only way to retrieve Draco was a blood price. The Black ritual that Narcissa used…" she falters here, just slightly, wondering if it hurts Draco to hear his mother's name. "The ritual was based in blood. Old earth magic, but more recently modified. Lucius wasn't trying to evade capture because he wanted to be free. He just… he wanted to be able to get Draco out. He was happy, I think. Happy to know Draco would be alright and he could join his wife. He led me to where he'd been hiding to ask for my help."

"What did he need you to do? Twist the knife?"

The room collectively braces under the weight of Harry's aggravation, his sarcasm grossly out of place.

Hermione doesn't rise to the bait, though, and answers simply, "No, Harry. I just needed to cast a spell on the frame. Something to weaken the structure that kept him inside. The rest… I'm not sure what Lucius did exactly." Tears prick once again. She would never have imagined she might cry for Lucius Malfoy, but it seems she might be doing a lot of it suddenly. "He sent me a message when he was ready. Then… it just worked." She shrugs, coming to the end of the story, and feeling exhausted, short though it really was.

"My condolences, Draco."

Hermione looks to her partner, who is holding Draco under a serious expression. Draco nods in turn and offers, "To you as well. I know he wasn't… I know you weren't really loyal, but… you were friends? Once…"

Severus nods. "We were. Not so long ago."

It seems like a moment where more could be said. Excuses and explanations. But Severus is not the wizard to offer such things, and Hermione isn't even sure they need to be said. Lucius Malfoy fell from grace at a young age and paid the ultimate price, losing the love of his life, and then his own existence. If reparations can ever truly be paid, the man has done so.

"I suppose you want your inheritance," Harry snipes. For his trouble, Theo backhands him on his chest, but there is affection in the gesture.

"They were having a moment, Potter." Turning to Draco, Theo continues, "I'll obviously be giving you back your stuffy manor. Who wants to live in Wiltshire anyway?" He grins in his very Theo way, and Hermione feels the low rumble of a laugh from Draco's chest.

"Are you sure? I'll sell it back to you." Theo starts to grin, but Draco goes on, "I don't think I want to go back there anyway. Too much… too much happened there."

It has another sobering effect. Hermione is having trouble keeping up with what Draco seems to need. He seems jovial one moment, devastated the next. All things considered, she supposes that's quite fair.

"The Ministry would purchase it." Everyone looks at Harry who shrugs, seeming to make an effort to be more civil. "It's full of ancient magic artifacts and rich in history. The Ministry has been buying old estates from some of the… of the older families." The thought hangs heavy in the air. From the Death Eater families… those who were mostly wiped out and disgraced in the war… rings as clear in the room as if he'd said it aloud.

Hermione, though, knows Harry was not trying to be crass, and throws him a proverbial bone by changing the subject. "We need to go to the Ministry. To have Draco reinstated into wizarding society."

Harry nods. "And if anyone asks, the spell was broken by someone who had been sending us anonymous owls for weeks. Whoever it was acted alone, setting Draco free for his own mysterious motivations." They all stare at him, and he asks, "What, you thought I'd throw Hermione under the bus? I may not like how this happened, but I didn't live through a war by following the rules  _all_  the time."

Theo reaches over and slides his hand against the back of Harry's neck, pulling him closer to land one brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I love how corruptible you are, Potter."

"Mister Malfoy?"

Penelope is looking expectantly at the newly freed wizard. He acknowledges her with a relatively polite lift of his right brow.

"Severus has been very worried for you. I assume they all have, too." She gestures to the rest of the room. "I'm sorry you lost someone, but I'm glad you made it out."

He doesn't seem to know what to say for a moment, then Draco releases a breath and says, "Thank you. I… appreciate that."

No one really knows what to do after that. They sit in silence, all contemplating different things, Hermione would imagine. When the glasses of whiskey are drained and the conversation equally dried up, Severus clears his throat.

"When you are ready, perhaps you would like to have a memorial. For Lucius and Narcissa. Until then, I imagine you will be happy to sleep on furniture outside of a sofa and eat something made of meat."

Draco chuckles at the last of the comment, rising as his godfather makes a step around Penelope's chair, it being obvious this was a parting thought. "I'd like that," he agrees. "Thank you… I know you put forth a great deal of effort to free me-"

"Which turned out to be for naught," Severus interrupts, sounding put out, but Hermione knows better. "You are welcome, Draco. I trust I will see you soon."

Holding out his hand to the witch seated nearby, he offers, "Shall I see you home, Miss Clearwater?"

"So formal," she giggles. "If by home, you mean your house, yes, you may." Severus' hand creeps lower on her back as they walk, nearly rest on her bum. The room collectively blanches.

Once they have crossed the threshold, Draco asks, "Are they always like that?"

Theo groans, answering him, "Unfortunately. I'm not sure which is worse: scary, angry Snape or sappy, lovesick Snape."

"Sappy, lovesick Snape," Harry and Draco answer together, then exchange a wary look between them.

Hermione smiles.

"Well, this has been quite the night" Theo announces, rubbing his hands together. "I imagine, though," he says, looking very pointedly at Draco, "you are thinking of all the ways you can make it better." His eyes shift from Draco to Hermione and back again. She flushes, but rises to the challenge.

"I'm sure you have similar goals for Potter," Draco says with a bit of put-on distaste. "It is rather late, I suppose," he adds. Gesturing to the stairs, he offers, "Shall we?"

"Together?" Theo smirks, playing up a suggestive wriggle of his brow.

Both Harry and Draco reach over to back hand his chest lightly. "Fuck off, Nott," they ring in tandem.

"Alright, that's going to be a problem if it keeps happening." Draco looks disgruntled, and Hermione laughs at him, taking his arm and leading him toward the staircase.

"No wonder I love you both so much. You're obviously the same person."

"That's ridiculous," Draco scoffs.

"Completely mad, obviously," Harry agrees.

Hermione's grin only grows as she leads Draco back into her bedroom, unsure what is to come. Their passionate reunion being cut short, Draco having so much emotional turmoil, she isn't sure what he needs from her now, but is willing to give him whatever that may be.

Even if what he needs is space. She hopes that isn't the case, but begins chewing her bottom lip in thought as they make their way down the hall on the second floor. Space or affection? Comfort or distraction? Conversation or more physical pursuits? Perhaps she should let him take the lead.

Though, when they are tucked inside her room, the door closed, locked, and silenced, he simply stands there looking at her, and she has no earthly idea what to do next.

* * *

She is starting at him like a skittish rabbit, and Draco is half afraid she's about to turn tail and run. Surely, she has no regrets, now that he's free? It would be easy to fall into the pit of self-doubt, but Draco decides to be resolutely stubborn and simply not believe it.

"Do you…" she starts, then seems to change course. "Where would you like to go tomorrow? That is, I assume you'd like to get out of here?"

Nodding, he takes a step forward. "I've been in the same room for over a year, Granger. I don't care what we do tomorrow, but I'd like to see the outside." He gestures to the window, the dark of night blanketed around. Muggle street lamps dot the horizon, but there is a fog obscuring their glow, and it looks like a night to stay in.

"We could go now," she offers, unsure, chewing her lip. "I'm sure there are pubs open. Something."

With another step forward, Draco shakes his head and answers politely, "No, thank you. I do believe I'm in for night."

He reaches for her, his fingertips sweeping across her cheekbone and down to her jaw. Eyes fluttering closed, Hermione tilts her head to one side, seeming very much to enjoy his touch. "You won't stop me again, will you?"

She looks up at him, her hand covering his, holding his palm against her cheek. "No," she whispers. "I won't stop you."

Draco keeps his eyes open as he leans in, locking onto her gaze and seeking reassurance. He's living in a state of disbelief. Somehow, in a matter of hours, his entire life is changed. He's no longer trapped in a portrait gated room. He's no longer going to starve to death. He's no longer unable to touch the witch that rules his heart.

He is, equally, faced with the death of his parents, one much more recent than he could have realized. He must confront his past and his future come morning, bidding for his estate and name to be returned, while hoping Shacklebolt meant what he said about not pursuing prosecution of Draco for his sins.

Head a jumbled and crowded mess, he pushes it all aside in favour of prioritizing Hermione Granger as the center of his world.

His lips brush hers, tentatively at first, testing her claims that she will not pull away. When she reciprocates, gently pillowing his lip with her own, he moves in closer, pressing his lips more fully to hers.

He feels her relax against him, her body sagging into his chest. "Draco…"

Something seems to have given in her. Something that was pulled tight and distressed is now soft as silk in her posture. Her mouth nibbles at him now. Soft and wet, her tongue occasionally, playfully, lapping out between them.

Then she's shaking her head, and he nearly panics, afraid she is having second-thoughts… serious second-thoughts. Not guilt over knowledge she needs to share, but a questions as to the nature of their relationship. The panic lessons, however, when she murmurs against his lips, "I was afraid you would hate me."

"Ridiculous," he promises with affection. "How could I ever?"

"Your father," she chokes, and he cuts her off with another kiss.

"He made his own choice, love." It does hurt, of course, knowing his father is gone. But Draco has been mourning him for months. If anything, there is a relief in his heart that maybe the man had not been entirely the monster he thought. That, perhaps, the wizard who taught him to sit a broom and tie a necktie and bought him sweets on their way home from the ministry was still in there, beneath the mark and the cowardice. There is a joy within the sorrow, bubbling to the service in the arms of this witch.

Taking her face in his hands, Draco looks at her intently, needing her to understand just how free from guilt she should feel. "Hermione, I love you," he says with astounding conviction. She whimpers, her eyes closing tight, and he tells her, "I've loved you for weeks, but I had no idea what you would be willing to do for me."

Her eyes open once again, and he nips at her mouth once. "I wanted to find a way," she whispers, "so I could save him too."

It melts his broken and frayed heart to hear her mournful tone. Draco doesn't want to dwell on this anymore. There will be time enough tomorrow to settle affairs and bury the dead. Tonight, he wants to bask in relief, to celebrate his fortune. "You saved me," he tells her. "That's more than I deserved," and he kisses her hard, forcefully and sure.

He backs her up slowly to the bed where he has watched her writhe, watched her beg for him and offer herself. When her thighs hit the mattress, he topples her back, following to nestle beside her and throwing his leg between hers.

"You saved me," he says again, full of incredulity and gratitude. "You fucking saved me," he punctuates with a kiss that travels across her jaw.

His fingers are cupping her face, caressing her shoulder, when she takes his hand in her own and brings it to her mouth. Her small teeth bite down on the side of his thumb, soothing with her tongue over the spot, then she suckles the digit into her mouth. Draco groans into her neck as her tongue swirls around the tip, and then she releases him, grasping his face and pulling him back to her once again.

He kisses her again, but suddenly he is gasping for breath, overwhelmed by his want for her, by his gratitude, by a crippling fear that this isn't even real, and that tomorrow he will wake on the same white sofa to an empty fruit bowl and imminent death. He kisses her as he clings to her, hands reaching and clawing at her, taking fistfuls of her sundress in his hands.

He kisses her until she pulls away, not even realizing there are tears tracking down his cheeks and he is shuddering in her hold. She soothes and shushes him as he lets the magnitude of the day crash down around him.

His mother, proper and dignified woman that she had been, opened her veins to give him a chance. His father, stoic and cold, and Draco had been so sure the man cared nothing for him… bled so he could live again. His entire world as he once knew it has vanished, and he feels thankful as much as guilty to be alive.

He's sobbing into the beautiful warm neck of Hermione Granger, and he lets her hold him, whispering promises of love and a future he knows he doesn't deserve, comforted by her sweet voice, whispering, "It's alright. I'll be right here. I love you… just sleep and I'll be here with you. I'm so sorry… Draco, I'm so sorry, but so happy you're alright… I love you… so much…"

Sometime in the night, he falls fitfully to sleep. Hermione, true to her word, doesn't leave his side.


	28. Chapter 28

Hermione feels warm and safe as she wakes, recognizing, through the haze of exhausted sleep, that Draco Malfoy's arms are wrapped around her, the tip of her nose pressed lightly against his cheek. "Good morning," she hears as she begins to stir, obviously not being the first between them to wake.

"Morning. What time is it?"

A pause and a shuffling of his head, all the while Hermione keeps her eyes closed, then he returns, "Half Seven. Can I assume Severus will not require you today?"

Hermione grins, straining her neck so her lips brush his jaw. "You can assume my partner and my employee can live a day without me, yes. I'm all yours," she adds.

She feels as much as hears the rumble of his answering hum, and he murmurs, "Indeed," before positioning himself to press his lips against hers, his palm cupping her face. "And what should we do with our very first day, Granger?"

Hermione smiles against his lips, full of suggestions, but then her face falls as she remembers, "We do have some obligations… for one, we have to go to the Ministry."

Groaning, Draco falls onto his back dramatically, pulling Hermione with him and holding her to his chest. "Must we? Can't we just…  _owl_  that I'm alive?"

She giggles at him, but wonders if this more jovial Malfoy is a healthy thing. Surely, one emotional break is not enough to have mourned his family? Regardless, she follows his lead, wanting nothing more than to give him whatever he needs.

"No," she answers quite haughtily, channeling her swottiest self. "You're meant to deliver a statement, and they'll need your signature of course. Besides, you need to get your money back from Harry. No doubt he won't let you take the lazy way out," she says with a smirk, and feels him chuckle beneath her.

"And breakfast. Can we have breakfast?"

She hears the excitement in his voice and remembers he hasn't had anything but fruit and nuts in months. "Even lunch and dinner," she promises, mockingly serious.

"Well, how can I say no to that?" She feels him shift and then he is pushing himself into a sitting position. She moves simultaneously until they are sitting beside one another, propped against her headboard.

Her attention slides to the large frame still opposite her bed, and the enormity of everything that's happened strikes her.

"Can we still pass through?" she wonders aloud, ever curious about the countless types of magic in the world.

He stiffens beside her. "Possibly… but I'm not putting so much as a toe over that threshold. And neither are you," he adds, wrapping his arm around her tighter. "We can't know if the charm might fail… or… I don't know, reinstate. I don't want you anywhere near that room, Granger, I'm serious."

Hermione does not much appreciate being told what to do, but she recognizes the fear throbbing beneath what sounds like authority. He's desperately afraid of the mirror. Afraid for her as well. So she nods and agrees, "I have no intention of letting myself become trapped in your family panic room. Perhaps the Ministry will take it. Let the Department of Mysteries pick it apart."

She feels the tension give infinitesimally, and he nods. "They're welcome to it." Seeming to decide to resolutely change the subject, Draco climbs from her bed and offers his hand. "Shall we then, pretty witch?"

She's helpless but to smile broadly at his term of endearment. He had called her that so often from his place in the gilded frame, but it's even more striking since he has joined her in the world. She imagines they are on the cusp of experiencing many firsts. She reaches for his hand and allows him to help her rise. "Will Potter be awake?"

"Not likely," she grins. "Not with Theo here."

Draco grimaces. "That's going to take some getting used to. It's bad enough my witch lives with the tosser, but now my best mate is shagging him."

She laughs at him, disappearing for a moment into her closet to slip out of one sundress and into another. Regardless of how many times she had undressed for his pleasure, there is something different about having him here, and she finds herself suddenly shy. When she does undress for him, and make no mistake, she will, thanks ever so, she wants it to be an important moment. Not just a task before breakfast.

When she emerges, he tsks at her, looking her dress up and down. "You didn't even let me watch?"

"Later," she breathes, meaning it more than she can say. "Come on, let's start getting your life back."

Grabbing her by the hand, Draco pulls her back, crashing her against his chest and leaning his face close to hers. "I'm pretty satisfied with everything I have right here."

She melts. Like a goddamn puddle, she dissolves at his feet, and is about to return the sentiment, but he sniffs and finishes, "Except this room, of course, is a bleeding shoebox."

"Draco!" she admonishes, looking up at him but finding herself too trapped in his hold to pull away. He's giving her that grin of his, the one that reduces her to a quivering mess of feminine adoration, so all she manages is a light smack to his upper arm with the back of her hand. "I quite like my room. Some of my fondest memories are here," she adds with a wink.

Laughing, Draco concedes, "Mine as well, come to think of it. Come on, then, beautiful. Let's rouse the lovebirds in some sort of loud and annoying way."

XXXXXXXXXXX

The day passes, and Hermione spends most every moment of it by Draco's side. Severus and Penelope had volunteered to tend to the shop for the coming days, and, for that, Hermione is grateful.

They don't make it to the Ministry after breakfast as planned, his mood turning, first, sour, then devastated. Hermione doesn't think it will hurt to wait one more day.

Draco tends to run a gamut of reactions, not always seeming to be appropriate for the circumstances. He rolls easily from pensive and serious, to being so joyful he's nearly manic, to a deep sorrow that seems infused to his bones. Theo is there, but he also gives him space.

That first evening Hermione thinks maybe he wants that from her as well, some privacy, and offers to make herself scarce for a time. "Don't you dare fucking leave, Granger," he answers, without hesitation, vehement and clenching his hands.

And so, she stays, holding him when he breaks and humoring him when he is playful, and simply sitting quietly nearby when he loses himself in his thoughts.

Their visit to the Ministry, rescheduled for the following day, goes off without a hitch. Harry floos ahead, requesting a meeting with Kingsley directly with a rather vague announcement of "He's out".

Draco is accompanied by Harry and Hermione, two-thirds of the Golden Trio flanking him, as he makes his way through the Atrium. Some bystanders gawk at him, either recognizing him personally, or perhaps the tell-tale platinum hair his father had made so well-known. When they arrive at the Minister's office, the witch sitting outside stares, open-mouthed, at the three of them. "Is that..."

"I need to see Kingsley, Patricia. It's, as you might imagine, rather urgent." Harry flashes her his famous boyish grin, and she blushes at him, stuttering out a 'yes' and 'of course' and generally muttering as she activates the magical call box on her desk.

"Mister Malfoy." Kingsley bursts from his office not a second later, nodding at Harry and Hermione, but striding right up to Draco and offering his hand. Hermione watches Draco hesitate, but finally reaches up to take it, allowing the Minister to clasp him in his grip and lock his other hand around his forearm. "My sincerest condolences.. I'm sure this is all quite the adjustment."

"Thank you, Minister," Draco replies, obviously uncomfortable. So much time spent alone, the high ceilings and cacophony of voices seem to be making him somewhat nervous.

Kingsley gestures that they follow him into his office, locking and silencing the door once they are inside.

Documents are presented next, Harry signing without hesitation to reinstate the Malfoy fortune to Draco, grinning at him proudly as he does. Hermione thinks Harry is charming; Draco mutters that he looks like a maniac.

Within merely an hour, Draco's life is back to some semblance as the one he had once known, beyond the glaring difference that his parents will not be waiting for him at his ancestral home. It seems this will go unsaid, until the Minister says, softly, "I am very sorry, son. Narcissa was an elegant lady and Lucius… I know he regretted many things in his life. I hadn't spoken to him in some time, but I've no doubt he would be happy to know that you can give your family back the respect he couldn't."

Hermione remembers Severus' unwavering trust in this man. She thinks of Lucius referring to him very familiarly. In Slytherin, you'll find your true friends, indeed.

Clearing his throat, Draco thanks him again, still uncomfortable, but now seemingly due to the emotion in his throat rather than the turbulence of his surroundings.

The Minister, also emotional, hurumphs, and extends a hand to Draco containing the parchment that will release the vault at Gringotts and acknowledge Draco as the rightful Black heir. "Well… there it is then. Every last knut."

"I appreciate-"

"Except, of course, the restoration fees charged to your family after the war," Kinglsey throws in quickly.

"Right, well-"

"And the processing fees to change over the estate," he interrupts again.

"Yes-"

"Twice."

"Alright." Hermione can see Draco's eyebrow start to twitch in annoyance.

"And the salary to the cleaners that scrubbed the dark magic from the premises."

Draco is silent this time, waiting.

"Well, it's more or less there," the MInister finishes, smiling again, and Hermione grins as Draco accepts the parchment, letting go an exhale of relief.

Theo had already completed his own transferal of inheritance that morning, and had been back to the Manor, readying the estate for the return of its master.

"Pipsy will be devastated," He had said before he left Grimmauld. He was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, Harry standing beside him with cup of coffee in his hand and his hair even more unruly than usual. Theo had been conversational and casual, running his forefinger up harry's bicep with delicate affection. Hermione had been struck by how domestic they all were, her own hand laying on Draco's forearm, his body leaned toward her like leaves toward the sun.

"I think she has a little something going with my Garden Elf," Theo'd explained.

"She could just stay with you." Draco had nearly shrugged the comment.

The room had been silent at that, Theo raising his eyebrow. "You know I have a team of elves."

Draco had agreed, unphased, "and I have nine others. Unless you'd rather she not, for some reason, which, can I just say, would make you a monster," he'd added with an affectionate roll of his eyes, "let her stay, Nott."

"You know she won't. She's bound to the Manor. To your family."

Hermione had watched as Draco loosed the tie from around his neck, throwing it at Theo carelessly. "Give her that. Tell her that Master Draco would very much like for her to work in the Gardens for Master Theo."

Hermione had squeezed his hand especially hard, grinning up at him when he smirked down at her.

XXXXXXXXXX

"You freed your elf," his witch says to him later. They are in her bedroom, a cup of tea going cold in Draco's hand. He had just needed some quiet after the bustle of the day. "Who will… do whatever it was that she did?"

It's been a long fucking day. Draco has been trying very hard to reign in the more intense of his emotions since his release, but is finding it difficult. He thought he had mourned his mother. Had you asked him a week ago, he would have likewise said his father didn't deserve the same consideration. It is becoming painfully clear, however, that he had not fully accepted the death of Narcissa Malfoy, and that he has some unresolved emotions regarding Lucius. However, sitting here now, luxuriating in the quiet, the calm, with his beautiful savior witch, he's finding it easier to focus on the here and now

"Well," he ponders, pretending to think on her question especially hard, "Pipsy was the very best at preparing my desserts. There was always a special treat for me at the end of the day." He levels her with a look that is drowning in significance. "Perhaps if someone would agree to help me finish my days on a high note?"

He adds a wriggle of his brow for effect, and Hermione giggles at him. "That's the worst, most obvious line I've ever heard. And I was often chatted up by  _McLaggen_ , just to put that in perspective."

Draco grimaces. "Let's make a rule, shall we? No former lovers mentioned while sitting on a bed together."

She hums in thought. "And just how many names will that exclude from your vocabulary tonight?"

"You can't possibly want this conversation to go that direction," he says, laughing freely.

She chuckles and shakes her head. "No, I really don't." Rolling her wrist at him, she says, "By all means, please continue your very questionable path to seduction."

Draco places his tea cup on the nightstand, emboldened by the almost casual banter between them, and shifts closer to her. "Oh, is that what you imagined I was doing? Very presumptuous, Miss Granger."

"Deductive," she counters. "I presume very little."

She has leaned closer, their banter preceding their movements, each word closing the space. "Tomorrow," he says, reaching his hand to her face, running his fingertips along her cheek, "I want to take you somewhere."

Hermione swallows, her throat bobbing gently, and she asks on a whisper, "where?"

Cupping her jaw in both hands, Draco runs his thumbs just beneath her cheekbones, watching her skin give under his touch, feeling her breath quicken against his face. "Everywhere," he exhales, pressing one soft kiss to her lips. "Everywhere we talked about. Anywhere you want to go. I want to start living, and I was hoping I could take you with me."

She whimpers. Whether it's from the kiss or its brevity, he can't say. "The shop…"

Smirking, he kisses her again, increasing the duration, but still gentle as a kitten. "So fucking practical," he accuses through affection. "You imagine I wouldn't let you come back? Temporary, Granger," he grins, letting her feel the expression with barely a brush of lips. "Eventually, I want to go to the manor," he admits, trying hard not to let sorrow colour the sentiment, but knowing he needs to seek closure there. "Then, maybe in a few days, I want to see something new, and I want you to be with me."

Draco feels her body jump slightly, and he's horrified to realize it was a sob, kept under wraps and trying to escape. He pulls back to search her eyes, finding them glassy and wet, but sees her smiling at him. "You have a house in France," she offers. "Wards are down."

He laughs a little, kissing her once again and wrapping his arms around her to pull her close. "Anywhere you want, pretty witch. I'll send the elves to ready it for us."

This time, it is Hermione who moves forward, pillowing his bottom lip between hers. "We can decide tomorrow," she says, barely finishing the thought before rising onto her knees and throwing one leg over his lap.

Draco's hands move to her hips, and he agrees, muffled against her, "tomorrow."

They make no plans that night, nor much into the next morning. Words are reduced to nothing between them. When Draco reaches his hand beneath her shirt to cup the underside of her breast, she says, "yes", and little else. When Hermione presses her core down against him, grinding herself into his lap, he murmurs her name against her lips, and nothing more needs to be said.

They move without instruction or discussion or requests. For a love that was first built on words, they find equal intimacy without them. Draco knows one day he will ask her to talk to him. Tomorrow or days from now, in the French estate or an Australian hotel or laid out on the sands of a private beach, he will come undone at the sound of her voice and the illicit quality of her thoughts. He will instruct her to beg, or plead with her in turn, their every fantasy come to life and made of flesh.

But this time, this first time, he feels her without considering the words to describe it, finding the places where her curves fit against his planes by natural compulsion alone.

He slides one hand to her neck beneath her curls, finding her neck damp, her skin glistening with a combination of exertion and control. Neither closes their eyes, lips parted, and they never move from their position. Her thighs settled on either side of his, Draco's hand laid against her hip, encouraging her movements and signaling his thrusts.

She doesn't look away when she comes, shuddering around him and nearly sobbing with the relief of it. Her eyes drag him down with her. He is whispering her name and praising her and feeling like he can fall apart because she will always catch his pieces.

"I love you," He says, panting into her neck. "Hermione, I love you. Fuck…" He's spent… exhausted and sweating, and still a ball of emotion, but all of it is tempered by a euphoria, by peace in her embrace.

He feels her smile, her lips pressed against his hairline. "I love you, Draco. Tomorrow… I'll follow you anywhere you want to go."

Draco nods, scooping her into his arms and laying them down gently. His eyes are heavy, and he lies there, blinking at her in silence, as she stares, equally drowsy, right back.

"Anywhere you want…" she whispers again, seeming to be nearly asleep in spite of her attempts to assure him.

"Anywhere," he agrees softly, meaning simply that it doesn't matter. That she is everything, and that his world, whether the entirety of Britain or a painted room in a gilded frame, is perfectly acceptable as long as she is in it.

They sleep until dawn, never moving, noses nearly touching and lips barely apart. When tomorrow comes, and the next, they will follow each other, neither caring at all where 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Thank you once again for your comments so far!


	29. Chapter 29

"You're fucking joking. He was  _here_. The  _entire_ time?" Theo sounds slightly frustrated but then erupts into an honest laugh. His hand comes to rest on Potter's shoulder like he needs physical support lest his own mirth knock him down.

Draco tries to look unamused. This laughter is, after all, at Draco's expense in a roundabout way. But he can't quite manage it. Eventually, his mouth breaks on instinct from a scowl to a grin, and then he's laughing along with his friend.

Besides, he always has Hermione to be indignant on his behalf. It's one of her primary gifts. "I can't  _believe_  you find this so entertaining," she huffs at the lot of them, even Harry having joined in.

The team of Unspeakables is standing to the side, not seeming to get the joke. Or, indeed, they don't particularly strike Draco as the type of wizards who get  _any_  joke.

The one who introduced himself as "Unspeakable Roberts" steps forward. He's older than the rest and seems to be in a position of authority amongst them. "The frame, as I was saying, has been moved to the property basement and transfigured into a permanent doorway. As the proprietor of 12 Grimmauld," he says to Potter, "you can use the room as you see fit. The physical space is no longer unplottable from the rest of the home."

"Thanks. Yeah. Perfect place for hosting parties, I imagine," the moron jokes back. Draco might find his former predicament mildly funny when  _Theo_  is making jokes, but he's not entirely ready for the Chosen One to poke fun at his near death.

"I'm never stepping foot in that room again," Draco mutters. He feels Hermione take his hand and squeeze, her grip tight like she's afraid that even considering re-entering the room might magic him away forever. He adores how protective and bossy she is. It makes him feel certain this formidable witch will always fight for him.

"Does it still regenerate? The organic matter?" Hermione asks, unable to stop her endless curiosity.

Roberts shakes his head in the negative. "The protections and regenerative charms were all part of the initial rite. When the warding broke, everything returned to the mundane." He pauses and then offers, "In my day, the rumour was Walburga enjoyed her husband's  _attentions_  in a room she specially designed in the basement. I hear she even kept a library that included questionable illicit works.  _Muggle_  books even… The stuff of gossip of course." Then he laughs, surprisingly, and this time Draco does not join in, reluctant or otherwise.

Truthfully, he feels a bit green. Potter also has a look on his face that is akin to horror.

"Well then," Roberts says as he clears his throat and straightens his demeanor once more, "On behalf of the Department of Mysteries, thank you for your cooperation." With that, the team heads to the Floo and makes their way back, one by one, to the Ministry.

After they've all gone, Theo slaps his hands together, rubbing his palms. "I can't  _not_  go in. You know that, right?"

Draco just hangs his mouth open in disbelief but doesn't argue. Once again, he lets Hermione take up his gauntlet. "Nott, don't you think that's a little... I don't know… crass? Insensitive?"

"Why? He's fine," he gestures to Draco. "I just want to see how my boy's been living. Plus, there was at least one overripe pear left. Waste not, want not. Don't be so irresponsible, Granger."

His witch is left gaping next to him when Theo saunters away, Potter on his heels. Draco looks down at her, and, noting the look on her face, sighs at her very loudly. "You want to see it, too, don't you?"

Her eyes are beautiful and wide and sparking with curious flame when she looks at him. "Well, only in interest of the spellwork, you understand. It's just… what an  _impressive_  bit of magic. The Unspeakables, I'm sure they gathered a lot of information from it, of course, and probably I can read the findings later in the official report-"

"Just go," he interrupts with a roll of his eyes. She hesitates, looking conflicted, and he loves her for it. "It's fine, really. I'm not going with you, of course," he chuckles, but takes her hand and starts to lead her after Theo.

"I suppose, if it's alright with you…" Her tone is hesitant, but Draco can tell curiosity is eating at her.

When they reach the lowest level of the old Black home, Draco sees Theo prancing about, a half-eaten pear in his hand. He is running his fingertips along the spines of the books that Draco knows so intimately.

He shudders a little, the garish gold of the frame still adorning the doorway a stark reminder of the months he spent staring at that trim. At two paces out, Draco stops. "That's far enough for me." He looks down at Hermione and gestures she can go on without him.

"This sofa is incredible." Draco looks up to find Potter bounce-sitting on the place where he slept for months. He looks like a child trying out his parents' mattress.

"All yours, Potter."

Hermione crosses the threshold cautiously, keeping one hand on the outside of the frame for some time, testing. Like the room might eat her.

"Found it!" Theo is grinning to himself, palming a book.

"Are you stealing my porn, Nott?" Draco asks him, noticing the familiar cover, "of Venus" visible behind his fingers.

"This room belongs to the  _proprietor_ ," he answers in a teasing tone, glancing at Harry. "Plus, it's literature. Probably would be a shame not to move these fine examples of magical and muggle writing upstairs, don't you think?"

"I could have just loaned you my copy," Hermione says, running a finger along the rim of the fruit bowl absently.

Harry looks shocked, Nott looks bemused, and Draco just smiles, watching them, for once, from the outside looking in.

He observes quietly for a few minutes, trying to tamp down the discomfort he feels at gazing casually into the prison where he might have starved. "Come on," eventually he says to all of them, struck by the knowledge that these three are some of the most important people in his life. "You wanted to see the room; you've seen it. Not to mention, you promised me Muggle takeaway tonight, and I'm famished."

"You're always hungry," Potter scoffs at him.

Draco scoffs right the hell back. "I ate fruit and nuts for a year and a half, you complete cock, of course I'm always hungry."

Nott grumbles as he leaves, Potter trailing after, "Never hear the end of it. Draco will be perpetually hungry forever to get attention…"

Draco grins after him, silently vowing to milk his hunger for all its worth just to annoy Theo. Soon after, though, he turns his attention to the witch emerging from the room.

"It's bigger than I thought it would be."

The looks he gives her, one eyebrow cocked and the corner of his lip turning up, is all the response she needs. She huffs and corrects, "The room, you arse. The  _room_  is larger than I thought."

"Felt small," he grunts, dropping the enuendo.

Hermione slides her arms around his waist and looks up at him. He searches her eyes a moment, waiting for her to speak. Before she can find whatever words she seems to be looking for, he murmurs softly, "I'm so glad they brought me to you."

Her hands gripped on the back of his neck, she pulls him down and presses her mouth against his, whispering, "me too," against his lips.

* * *

Days pass, and Draco finds it easier with each morning to face his new existence. He and Hermione are still staying at Grimmauld, and he's growing rather used to seeing Theo and Potter. After his imposed solitude, it's actually a relief to casually run into another human on the way to the loo, a luxury no one should have to miss.

"My father's study?"

Theo is stirring milk into a cup of muggle coffee, apparently branching out of his pureblood upbringing more and more. Potter likes coffee, so Theo drinks it. Potter likes something called football, so Theo watches it. In return, Theo tells him, Potter is very susceptible to  _suggestion_. An eyebrow wriggle told Draco not to chase that conversation any further.

"The one in the east wing. It's blood warded. The Manor is mostly cleared out, but they want you to unlock the study and remove any personal effects before the official transfer."

"I don't want anything from there," he says, a little harsh. He had agreed readily to the sale of his ancestral home to the Ministry with the understanding that he would not have to be immediately involved.

Draco is getting better. Slowly, each day, he is coming to terms with his circumstances, but he doesn't need or want anything to do with his father or their part in the war. Aside from the family heirlooms and photographs Theo already stored away for him, he wants no more reminders of the life his father led them into. What would he find if he looked? Some legal parchments binding the Malfoys to the Death Eaters or to the corrupt war-time Ministry? Love letters to Tom fucking Riddle? No thank you, Draco would prefer to close that chapter of his life.

"You don't have to keep any of it," Theo tells him patiently. "Just open it and give it a glance."

Draco has known Theo enough to read the tone in his voice. For whatever reason, his friend thinks this is important. Or non-negotiable… Whatever the reason, he knows it's not worth arguing. "Fine," he agrees with a huff. "When Granger goes into the shop later. Let's get this over with."

Hermione emerges from their room shortly thereafter, dropping a kiss to his cheek as she makes her way to the coffee. There is a shuffle in her step that seems to come with the early daylight hours. Theo shifts to the side on instinct, letting her have easy access.

"Word to the wise," Theo says out of nowhere, "don't get between Granger and her morning coffee."

She throws him a rude gesture with one hand as she pours with the other, then makes her way out of the kitchen. "See you at six," she tells Draco, pecking one more kiss to his face and breezing back out the way she came.

"Shall we, then?" Theo asks, pouring his half-finished mug down the drain. With a nod, Draco follows him out the door for his last visit to Malfoy Manor.

The estate, he finds out moments later, is much as he expected. Taking Potter's Floo into the Manor's south drawing room, they emerge to find the place devoid of any personal touches. The elaborate sconces, moldings, and trims are as regal as ever, but all furnishing and effects have been removed. It's a house of ghosts, and Draco doesn't want to be here at all.

As they walk the corridors…. _There_. That small receiving room to the left is where The Dark Lord first branded a young and naive Draco. He remembers writhing on the ground, the Mark searing into his skin like a burn.

And  _here_ … The heavily carved mahogany door that guards the main dining room. Voldemort held court there, scheming and plotting and serving up those of ill favour to his snake.

_This_ hallway… The one just off the main entry. This is where Draco hid while Granger screamed. He remembers digging his fists into his eyes and covering his ears. He can still feel the panic and hopelessness, not understanding how his life had spiraled from a wealthy princeling to a minion for monsters and sycophants, watching a girl with whom he shared meals and classes be viciously cut apart by his own family.

He picks up his pace. They can't leave fast enough.

The door to the study is as he remembers as well. How many nights did he seek out his father? How many afternoons did Narcissa send him to collect Lucius for tea? Countless. Endless. There are moments in his memories that are so mundane, completely insignificant, yet now they are the best of them.

When had his father turned into one of the monsters? Or was he always, and Draco simply never knew? His memories are soured, blackened by doubts.

He's not sure how long he stares at the door, but eventually Theo clears his throat, and so he assumes it has been some time indeed.

"Sorry," he mutters before using his wand to cut a hairline slice into his palm. A drop of his blood wells up onto his skin, and he lays his hand against the door, casting a spell as he does.

They hear a click, and the door slowly swings open.

He almost expects to find Lucius inside. Lucius with his hair pulled back from his face, a quill in his hand. He will be perched on the ornate chair passed down by his own father, specially commissioned in Italy. Lucius will look up at him in annoyance at being disturbed but school his features to ask what Draco needs. Lucius who would, sometimes, not always, indulge him by leaving his work to watch a new trick he had learned on his broom or answer his curious questions about Hogwarts, or agree that, yes, it is time he came down for tea, and, no, they do not want to keep his mother waiting.

But, of course, the chair is empty.

"I'll just," Draco tries, voice hoarse so he clears his throat. "I'll just be a moment. Will you… maybe could you make sure my room was cleared out?"

Theo, Salazar bless him, seems to understand. He nods once, clapping one hand on Draco's shoulder, then continues down the hall.

He's not sure what he expects to find. A letter? A message from his father saying he didn't mean any of it, and he wishes Draco every happiness? Life isn't so tidy, he would suppose. Not so very neat.

There are books, of course, on a variety of magical topics. Parchments and documents fill many drawers of the desk, neatly cataloged and arranged. Most are fairly official, relating to Lucius' time spent on the Hogwarts board or reports from Malfoy Industries before it was sold off for parts during and after the war. A beautifully framed photo sits on the mantel. His family, complete in a party of three, looks back at him. His younger self sneers, trying to look self-important and much taller than he really was. His father, stoic. His mother, elegant. It is the family he remembers in all their gross imperfection.

He holds it in his lap while he weeps, his father's chair beneath him.

His eyes run dry eventually, and he tucks the frame into his robes. He has others, of course, but who else would value this? He is the last of them, and very few others will mourn them at all.

He starts to leave, realizing what is left in the room is as cold and impersonal as one would expect from a man like his father. Let the Ministry have it all. Perhaps, someday, he will move to the estate in France. The elves are already there, making it habitable once again in case he were to decide to visit. He'd had nothing else for them to do anyway.

Draco is about to douse the sconce to the right of the door when he makes one last glance behind him. There, in the middle of the third shelf, a book sits askew. His father was a very organized man, and he demanded order in his home. It's jarring to see anything out of place, or he might have overlooked it.

He walks back across the room and finds the book to be what he knows as a favorite of his father. A historical telling of the rise of the Ministry as told from the perspective of those who fought against the sanitizing and regulation of magic by the new government. Draco had watched his father crack open that tome on countless occasions, waxing philosophic at the dining table with Narcissa. She indulged him, mostly; always with a soft smile.

He thinks to take it with him, a memento of his family as he had known them. One page is marked, a separate parchment peeking out of the edge. Morbidly curious as to what his father might have last read, he opens the book to find himself staring at a crude drawing of three figures with hair done in an unnatural yellow. Two tall, one small, the one representing his mother dressed in poorly rendered purple dress robes.

Draco doesn't remember the drawing, though he's sure he made it. The names of his family are scrawled under each of them in his own childish penmanship. He must have made this when he was no more than six. The paper is fresh, likely charmed never to yellow or fade.

Studying it, too drained to shed any more tears over his past, he turns it over in his hand and finds the much more elegant script of his mother.

**Draco**

**Age 5**

**Look what our beautiful son made for you, Darling**

He looks around as if searching for the ghosts of his past, but comes up short.

Tucking the page back into the book, Draco shrinks the book and pockets it next to the photograph. He sucks in a deep breath, willing his eyes to clear as the oxygen shudders roughly out of his lungs, and knows his healing truly began today.

* * *

"Well, well… Mister Draco Malfoy. This is the strangest thing to happen in… at least a week." George Weasley claps Draco on the back, almost sending him stumbling, grinning like a loon.

"Yes, being trapped in a portrait for over a year, I can't say as I've had a lot of terribly normal days myself. As you might imagine."

"Oh, leave the poor boy alone, George." Molly hustles in from the next room, levitating a tray full of mugs. She has it nearly under Draco's nose when she offers, "Cider, Dear?"

Hermione stifles a giggle when he picks up the mug gingerly, taking a subtle sniff before a cautious drink, but Molly has already moved on.

"Harry, you're entirely too thin, as always. Take a cider, it won't bite. And who's your friend?"

The room seems to notice Theo all at once, a half dozen red-heads waiting for Harry to confirm if this young man is a friend, a work associate, a...

"This is Theodore Nott. He's… we're…"

Theo's face is passive as Harry tries to find the words, but Hermione can see the strain. Eventually, she thinks she might have to rescue them both, but then, suddenly, it's not necessary.

"Merlin, Harry, the word you're looking for is  _dating_. Unless you really wanted to shock my poor mum with  _snogging_ … or worse."

All eyes turn to Ron Weasley, who looks just pleased as proverbial punch. He scans all the faces and shrugs. "What, like he wouldn't tell me? I'm his best mate."

The family settles in from there, Molly fussing over Theo and Draco, making them feel welcome in spite of their families' histories with her own. They are both gracious, of course, as is their upbringing.

Hermione lets herself slip in and out of conversations, occasionally running her fingers over Draco's hand or enjoying the feel as he lays his palm on her knee. The Weasleys are curious about the portrait and, subsequently, the new room at Grimmauld, asking endless questions of Draco. He takes it in a stride, and Hermione is more proud than she can say.

Eventually, she excuses herself to refill her cider and ends up nearly toe to toe with Ron.

He gives her an awkward grin, and she realizes just how long it's been since they spoke. "I hear congratulations are in order," she ways by way of greeting, smiling at him sincerely.

Ron gestures at Draco. "Seems I could say the same."

She blushes and argues, "Well, we're hardly engaged…"

"Won't take him long." He is pouring his own glass and then gestures to hers, taking it and refilling it for her as well. It's a mannerly gesture she would not have expected. Perhaps Susan is good for him.

"Why do you say that?" She nods her thanks as he hands her the mug.

Ron snorts at her. "Are you serious? He's completely besotted. Just look at his face. Looks a bit like  _you_  did back when Lockhart came to Hogwarts, actually."

Hermione screws up her mouth in mock annoyance, but does indeed look back at her lover. She catches his eye and can't deny she does find affection there, blushing at the slow, crooked grin that creeps onto his face.

"So, you knew about Harry and Theo?" she asks, taking the focus off herself.

"About as long as you, I imagine. Harry asked me not to say anything. Legal reasons and all. But he wanted us both to know and you had found out, so…" He shrugs, implying the rest.

She nods, a small, petty part of her glad to discover that she knew first. Part of her had been wondering if Harry told Ron the truth voluntarily first, while she had to stumble on the knowledge.

"You… that is, I'm surprised… your family seems to be taking all this well. Accepting them." She gestures to the two Slytherins in their midst.

"We trust you," he shrugs, and just like that, everything is more than alright.

* * *

Later, when they have made it back to Grimmauld, Harry and Theo retired for the night, Hermione takes Draco by the hand and leads him to her room. It was a good day. Each sunrise brings a Draco that is adjusting, his demeanor improving as the tragedy of his family slowly slips into the past. Today in particular, as the afternoon at the Weasley home had progressed, he had grown more comfortable. At this point, she would say he is downright playful.

"I'm just saying, you haven't exactly  _hippogriffed_  me yet." He smirks at her, wriggling his brow.

She laughs at him. "And what precisely does that entail?"

"Well, I have no idea, do I? I haven't ridden one, but you implied it would be a singular experience, and I just want you to live up to your promise."

Hermione pushes him toward the bed, shutting the door with her foot. "Well, I suppose you would need to be laying down."

The look on his face is adorably eager as he loosens his tie and kicks off his shoes. "As my lady wishes," he grins.

She watches him as he strips down to just his shorts and lays himself on the bed, upper body propped up on his elbows. "You seem happy," she comments.

"You seem over-dressed."

Hermione laughs softly at that, accepting he's not in the mood to recap their day. She slips her blouse over her head and lets her trousers fall to the floor. Straddling him, she gently cups his face and leans down for a kiss. He gives no resistance, allowing her to force him flat on his back.

Hermione feels his hands sliding up her back, then down her arms. There is a reverence in his touch, veneration. Hermione leans into him, her kiss becoming more insistent, and she presses her core down onto his lap.

"I think I'm jealous of that fucking Hippogriff," he says against her, and she nips at his lip in response.

"Hippogriffs generally don't wear shorts," she offers. "If you wanted an authentic experience."

"Oh, right," he breathes out. "Best take care of that."

They both reach down between them, trying not to break their kiss as they shove off the last remaining bits of clothing. It is no time before Hermione is panting against his throat as he thrusts up into her, one hand palming her breast and his lips pressed against her temple.

She pushes up, sitting tall and working her hips in a rhythm that slows them down. He's watching her with intensity, mouth parted and jaw locked in concentration. "Fuck, that's a beautiful sight." His gaze pans down to where they are connected, his hands laid on her thigh and her waist.

Looking back up at her face, he growls, "That's it, pretty witch. Just like that."

Hermione groans, overwhelmed by him. "I love when you talk to me," she says softly, a secret he already knew. "You have no idea how much…"

"Enough that you're dripping down my cock," he tells her. "So wet for me, Hermione. Gods, you feel fucking perfect…"

She moves herself faster, rising and dropping down with as much force as her straining muscles can manage. She's nearly shaking with the effort, the little sounds of her pleasure increasing in volume, chasing her finish and leading him to his.

Reaching down, she lays the tip of her middle finger against her clit, adding friction that immediately pushes her toward the precipice. The slow and torturous build is suddenly teetering at the edge.

"Gods, yes, come for me." He's watching her, watching her hand, and his thrusts become more desperate. "Let me watch you. So fucking close…"

If it's a race she wins, but only just, arching her back and crying out just as he shouts and stiffens beneath her.

She collapses against him, gasping against his chest and clinging to his shoulders.

Hermione gives herself a moment, feeling the euphoria ebb slowly away into a relaxed state. After her breathing slows and she carefully slides off him to lay at his side, she asks, "Was that more what you had in mind then?"

He chuckles, still breathing hard. "Well, I do feel a bit rode hard and put away wet. So, yes, I suppose that's more what I had imagined."

"I'll have to take better care of you, then. I don't want to wear you out."

Draco turns his head to look at her, lifting his hand to her face and brushing her sweat-slicked hair from her cheek. "Impossible. I could go again right now, witch." He offers her that devastating grin of his and she kisses it off his face.

"We'll test that theory later," she says, snuggling into his side.

Hermione feels him reach across her to the light at their bedside and douse the light. "I love you," he says in the blackness.

She reaches blindly and finds his face, gently cupping his jaw and passing her thumb over his lip. "I love you, Draco."

She's not sure when they fall asleep, a few more mumbled confessions of affection between them, but Hermione wakes feeling warm. Draco is spooned against her back, his palm laying over her breast and her head pillowed on his arm.

He must feel her move, or perhaps her breathing shift, because he asks, "Are you awake?"

She hums and turns in his hold. "Morning."

"Morning, my love. Plans today?"

"Not one." Hermione grins, thrilled at the notion that they have no obligations but to each other.

"Should we wake Potter and Theo?" Draco ponders.

"Let them sleep. They've had a big weekend."

He chuckles at her and pulls her closer. "They're grown wizards, love, not children."

"Theo makes me wonder…"

He laughs again and she smiles, leaning in to lay a kiss on the side of his mouth.

" _Hermione!_ "

She growls low and lays her forehead against Draco's chest, trying desperately to pretend she didn't just hear her best friend screaming at her up a flight of stairs. "Dear Merlin…"

"HERMIONE! DRACO ATE ALL THE HUMMUS! DID YOU BUY MORE?!... Wait, what Theo?… oh. NEVERMIND! WE FOUND SOME!"

"You have to concede, it's at least  _like_ having children…" she grumbles.

Draco sniffs at her assessment. "Absolutely not. Our children will be far better behaved than either of those two."

She looks up at him, a smirk on her lips and her eyebrow raised.

"What, too soon? Just thinking ahead, beautiful. In the meantime, we can consider them," he gestures with his eyes toward the door, "as an experiment in worst case scenarios. If we can handle them, we can handle anything."

She agrees with a nod. "Anything."

Draco sits up, taking her with him. "Come on, let's head down."

Standing with a stretch, Hermione wraps herself in a robe, a yawn passing her lips.

"Breakfast?" she suggests.

"Nah. I think I'm having a craving for hummus. Seems Theo found some."

She eyes him. "Do you even  _like_  hummus?"

"I mean, it's alright… but Potter fucking  _loves_ it." His eyes gleam, and Hermione can see a future she already likes. A playful, sarcastic, passionate, frustrating, beautiful future.

"I like hummus," she says. "Split it with me?"

His answering smile says he sees that future, as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you again to all of you reading and commenting. It has been a pleasure posting this thanks to all of you. I plan to cross-post more pieces to this site so maybe I'll see you soon :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would love to hear from you in a review!


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